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Rod Serlings

April 1983/ $2.50

NEW JOURNEYS OF THE IMAGINATION
AND ALWAYS , . THE UNEXPECTED

Magazine

THE TWILIGHT ZONE MOVIE ROD SERLING WOULD HAVE

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Rod Serlings

Magazine

March/April 1983

TZ CONTEST WINNERS

Ahbie Herrick 35

The Journey

Brian Ferguson 2>1

Critique

Susan Rooke 39

Evening in the Park

William B. Barfield 41

Say Goodbye to Judy

FICTION

Scott Edelman 42

Fifth Dimension

Juleen Brantingham 44

Nightbears

Bruce J. Balfour 66

The Last Adam and Eve Story

Dakota Safari

Byron Marshall 76

Murchison’s Dream
And Now I’m Waiting

Richard Matheson 80

FEATURES

Carol Serling 5

A Word from the Publisher

In the Twilight Zone

TZ Interview: Colin Wilson

A Colin Wilso n Sampler

Screen Preview: ‘The Hunger’

TZ Discovery: Notes for a ‘T wilight Zone’ Movie

TZ Classic Teleplay: ‘A World of His Own’

Show¥y-Show Guide to TV’s ‘'Dvilight Zone’: Part Twenty-Three

Lisa Tuttle 24

Colin Wilson 30

James Vemiere 50

Rod Serling 56

Richard Matheson 88
Marc Scott Zicree 100

OTHER DIMENSIONS

Gahan Wilson 8

Thomas M. Disch 12

Books

Joel A. Samberg 15

Video

Kathleen Murray 17

Quiz: ‘Heroes & Heavies’ Revisited

Covef art by Kari Broymon

A Note

from the Publisher. . .

Some years ago a writer noted,
“On October 2, 1959, a new
television series will be launched. If
it is anywhere nearly as successful as
certain powers are betting it will be,
then the dream of every green-
blooded fan will come true and we’ll
have, for the first time, decent
science fiction and fantasy drama
available on a regular basis. If, by
any chance, the series should turn
out to be as successful as those
powers hope, then something like a
revolution will occur.”

The man was Charles Beaumont,
screenwriter and fantasist.

He was talking about
The Twilight Zone.

Prophetic? Yes! And the
revolution hasn’t abated; it’s an
ongoing phenomenon. Twilight Zone
is alive and well and everywhere.
Witness:

• Two years ago Twilight Zone
Magazine hit the newsstands,
and we’ve been going strong
ever since. Our circulation
has more than doubled with
this issue, which marks our
second anniversary— and also
presents the thr ee winners of
our Twilight Zone short story
contest.

• This fall a book called The
Twilight Zone Companion
appeared on the scene and
cheered all the loyal tv fans
who can recite all the
Twilight Zone episodes
chapter and verse. The book,
incidentally, was written by
our own Marc Scott Zicree,
who does the “Show-by-Show
Guide” every month.

• And perhaps the biggest news
of all is that Steven Spielberg
and a few of his pals— John
Landis, Joe Dante, and
George Miller— have gotten
together and said, “Let’s
make a Twilight Zone movie!”

Some of you know all this
because you’ve been with us for the
past two years. This, then, is a
special welcome to our new readers .
—and a word about what you’ll find
when you enter the Twilight Zone.

The easy part is describing what
you won’t find: the sort of
exploitative melodrama in which
“oceans of gore compete with oceans
of bile evoked.” There will be no
sadism and violence for the titillation
it brings, none of the gimmickry of
Hollywood horror.

, What you will find is harder to
define— though many have tried. For
instance:

“Stories of the unexpected,
where anything can happen . . . and
usually does.”

“Stories that might be true and
stories that could not be true.”

“Stories that will appealingly
appall you and fill you with a
delicious dread”— or, as Charles
Beaumont once said, “Stories that
will appeal to the fiend in you.”

“Stories that will explore your
inner space and outer space.”

“Stories by people, about people,
and for the satisfaction of people.”

In short, mysterious, provocative,
vaguely terrifying stories that
expand the imagination, that
“stretch it to induce things never
before seen or dreamed of.”

Even Anthony Boucher had his
problems defining the genre, which,
he felt, could turn out to be either
“subliterate” or “the freshest hope
for literature. It is the most realistic
or escapist form of fiction. It is
freeing men’s minds for a better
world to come, or it is enslaving
them for an Orwellian State. It is a
vehicle of scientific prophecy one
step ahead of fact, or it is a
hodgepodge of false facts and falser
thinking masquerading in the name
of science.”

In any event, when you read this
magazine you’re on a journey, and in
the words of its creator:

The highway leads to the
shadowy tip of reality; you’re
on a through route to the land
of the different, the bizarre,
the unexplainable ... Go as ’
far as you like on this road.

Its limits are only those of the
mind itself. You’re entering
the wondrous dimension of the
imagination. Next stop— the
Twilight Zone.

M

In addition to the stories, in the
months to come you can expect to
find:

• Profiles of the masters, the
men and women who shaped
modern fantasy, along with
classic tales of terror and
the supernatural.

• Reviews of the latest books
and movies in the genre and
interviews with the people
responsible for them.

• Striking photo portfolios of
the world’s haunted places
—and of surreal worlds found
only in dreams.

• A wealth of never-before-
Ijublished Rod Serling
memorabilia, including tv
shows, radio dramas, and— in
this issue— his personal notes
for a Twilight Zone movie.

• And for the next few months
we’ll bring you exclusive
on-the-set coverage of the real
Twilight Zone movie that’s
now in production. (I can
definitely promise this; I’m in
the film.)

We’d like to hear from you, too:
what interests you, which sections
please you most, and what you’d like
to see us change. You can even
tell us what sections to drop— or
send us an item for our “Etc.”
column, where we rely upon readers’
contributions.

I hope that all the above has
given you some idea of what to
expect on your journey through these
pages. Enjoy!

Associate Publisher

5

i N I H- __E

Winners . . .

' You remember the ancient
parable about the bird who, every
thousand years, comes flying by with
a single grain of sand in its beak and
drops it in a little pile, and how,
when that pile eventually grows into
: a thousand-mile-high mountain, it’s
' still just the briefest eye-blink in the
mighty vastness of eternity? Sure
' you do. Well, reader Joseph Tarulli
of Brooklyn has come up with a
similar illustration— not quite as
hopeless, thank God— regarding the
j chances of winning Twilight Zone’s
story contest;

I Imagine q large three-story women's
* department store. Amid the tremendous
' inventory hangs a blue dress, one
. appropriate for the office, a dinner, or a
1 house party. The style is tasteful, the fit
complimentary, and the price
reasonable. There is nothing in the world
; wrong with this dress, and there is no
other dress exactly like it.

! Now, only one woman passes
i through this huge store each
I week— which means that just fifty-two
I people a year are choosing among
i literally thousands upon thousands of
! garmenfs. Moreover, at least half these
people enter the store without any
i intention of buying, merely to browse or
' kill time. And of the other half, perhaps
: only three would actually be in the
market for a dress; fhe rest are more
interested in girdles, shoes, slacks,
blouses, etc. Furthermore, the odds are
great that the three potential dress
buyers will reject the blue dress
because they don't happen to like the
color or the style, or else it simply isn't
their size.

Every year, a writer has about as
much chance of selling a story as our
hypothetical department store has of
selling that blue dress,
j Sincere congratulations to the
winnersi

i Jesus! I didn’t know things were
I that bad in either The Twilight Zone
or publishing in general. Still, I
suspect Tarulli’s a lot closer to the
mark than ninety-year-old publishing
great Alfred Knopf, who claimed in a
recent Newsweek, “It must be
impossible to write a book so bad
that no house will take it.” Obviously

Herrick

Fer^fuson

Marshall Fdelman

it’s been sixty years since the guy’s
seen a slush pile.

But even though TZ’s contest
I wasn’t a one-in-a-million proposition,
j we did receive more than four
thousand entries this year, despite
! the fact that we’d limited the
j contest, for the first time, to just one
i entry per writer.

I Because of the huge number of
. submissions, and because so many of
I them were of genuinely high quality,

, picking a winner proved a lot harder
I than expected, and in the end, after
j endless bickering, bloody noses, and
; page after page of abstruse
; statistical analysis, we editors simply
I threw up our hands and decided that,

! instead of consigning our three
■ favorite stories to first, second, and
I third place, we’d award “first place”
i to all three and let the writers split
I the total prize money— a thousand
dollars— among themselves. (The
: leftover penny. I’m told, has been
I plowed back into research and
' development.)

Of course, there are bound to be
a few malcontents out there (and
don’t think we don’t know who you
are) muttering things like “cop-out”
and “quitters,” but as we see it, the
three prizewinners exhibit so much
diversity in style and approach that
it would be unfair to rank them. So
there.

Surely the most savage of the
bunch is Critique by BRIAN
FERGUSON (I’m going in
alphabetical order), which he
describes as “my reaction to a
college-level creative writing class.
Those who read the story often find
it disturbingly familiar.” We certainly
did. Ferguson himself, from North
Salt Lake, Utah, teaches English in a
local junior high school and is

Balfour

obviously good at empathizing with |
his students.

ABBIE HERRICK’S poignant
story The Journey also had its roots
in a college writing class. The
instructor suggested that the story j
deserved to be published, but finding j
the right magazine was a problem. i
“It wasn’t science fiction,” Herrick !
! recalls, “and it v/asn’t exactly i

j mainstream. It didn’t seem to fit I

i anywhere.” We hope you’ll agree
I that it fits perfectly in Twilight Zone.

I The author, a Brooklynite, has
! supported herself by everything from
; washing cars to prop building and
j stunt work while pursuing an j

I interest in video and film. !

j Native Texan SUSAN ROOKE j

! has found that life in Austin with a I
j husband and five overweight cats j

j provides her with all the story i

1 material she' needs. “The city is I

crammed with atmosphere and !

characters,” she says. “Sometimes I I
think I know more than my share of .
the latter.” Still, it’s unlikely the ^
place has any character as odd as the ^
little old lady in Rooke’s wonderfully
cynical Evening in the Park.

As a special bonus, we couldn’t
resist adding Say Goodbye to Judy to
the trio of contest winners. Its
author, WILLIAM B. BARFIELD,
was born in Baton Rouge, educated
1 in Mississippi, and now works as an
engineer in Charlotte, where he
helped found the Aardvarks Literary |
Guild, a local writer’s roundtable ,
soon to put out a small magazine of
its own.

There are other entrants, too,
whose stories deserve honorable
mention. A few of them came very
close to winning. You’ll find these
finalists listed on page 102.

; BYRON MARSHALL, author of

6

Photo credit. Motheson/Morc Scott Zicree

RODSERLING’S

WGHT

PNE““

S. Edward Orenstein
President & Chairman
Sidney Z. Gellman
Secretary /Treasurer
Leon Garry
Eric Protter

Executive Vice-Presidents

Executive Publisher:

S. Edward Orenstein
Publisher: Eric Protter
Associate Publisher and
Consulting Edi tor: Carol Serling

Harfield

Editor: T.E.D. Klein
Managing Editor: Jane Bayer
Associate Editor: Robert Sabat
Contributing Editors:

Thomas M. Disch, Gahan Wilson,
Marc Scott Zicree

<ilass Mathoson

Murchison’s Dream, is another gifted
Louisianian who works by day in the
sciences (data processing) and plays
by night in the arts— painting, banjo
picking, and contributing children’s
fiction and comic strips to the local
press. He’s currently working on an
animated film.

SCO'TT EDELMAN has also
worked with comics, having been a
writer for such titles as Captain
Marvel and Home of Mystery. (At
present he’s doing p.r. for St. Pauli
Girl beer, an excellent brew.) Of the
hundreds of stories we’ve run in TZ,
we’ve never had one so uniquely
appropriate as Edelman’s ingenious
Fifth Dimension.

Welcome back, this issue, to
three of the most dissimilar writers
who ever graced our pages: GENE
O’NEILL (“The Burden of Indigo,’’
Oct. ’81), here with a wild and woolly
tall tale of the future; JULEEN
BRANTINGHAM (“'fhe Old Man’s
Room,’’ Nov. ’81), with a somber
little cautionary tale of a future so
near it could be next week; and
BRUCE J. BALFOUR (“Some Days
Are Like That,” June ’82), with an
Adam-and-Eve tale designed to end
all Adam-and-Eve tales. Though it
probably won’t.

N ovelist-screenwriter-Twi%/it
Zone veteran RICHARD
MATHESON has been the subject of
our only two-part TZ Interview; he
was also one of the judges of last
year’s short story contest, and
appeared here in June with a
hitherto-unseen Twilight Zone tv
script, “The Doll.” In this issue
you’ll find a more familiar Matheson
script— A World of His Own— as well
as the never-before-published short
story on which it’s based. His most
recent assignment: screenplay work

on Steven Spielberg’s forthcoming
Twilight Zone film.

In our last issue, LISA TUTTLE
journeyed to Buckinghamshire to
interview Roald Dahl. This time her
destination was Cornwall, where she
tracked down an even more eccentric
quarry, COLIN WILSON, a man of
unlimited enthusiasms who manages
to be both a visionary and a practical
working writer. (Midway through the
interview, Tuttle notes, Wilson gave
her a look at his manuscript in
progress. Access to Inner Worlds,
and promptly went off to have a
bath. As I said, a practical man.)

Why are we running a photo of
MIGNON GLASS when she doesn’t
have a story in this issue? Because
she had one in the previous
issue— the highly disturbing
encounter known as “A Chance
Affair”— and since the story was
added at the last minute, we failed to
take note of her here. Glass, who’s
recently moved from Houston to
New Orleans (what is it about Texas
and Louisiana?), has appeared in
Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine
once and, thanks to this, in TZ twice.

As an ardent foe of trapping. I’m
glad I’ve never met anyone with a
mind like the proverbial steel trap;
but I can attest with pleasure that
KATHLEEN MURRAY, who
compiled this' issue’s movie quiz, has
a mind like a serviceable home
computer that’s been primed with
Halliwell’s Filmgoer’s Companion
and old volumes of Screen World. It
comes as no surprise to learn that,
while still an underclassman at
Marymount, she was a College Bowl
contestant, and that she later won
grand prize on tv’s $20,000 Pyramid.
Clearly this is an issue of prizewinners.

— TK

Design Director: Michael Monte
Art Director: Pat E. McQueen
Art Production:

Susan Lindeman, Carol Sun.
Typesetting: Irma Landazuri

Production Director;

Stephen J. Fallon

Controller: Thomas Schiff

Ass’t to the Publisher: Judy Linden

Public Relations Manager.:

Jeffrey Nickora

Accounting Mgr.: Chris Grossman
Accounting Ass’t: Annmarie Pistilli
Offic^ Ass’t: Miriam Wolf

Circulation Director: William D. Smith
Circulation Mgr.: Carole A. Harley
Circulation Ass’t: Karen Martorano
Newsstand Sales Manager:

Karen Marks Goldberg
Eastern Circ. Mgr.: Hank Rosen
West Coast Circ. Mgr.:

Advertising Manager: Rachel Britapaja
Adv. Production Manager:

Marina Despotakis

Adv. Ass’t: Katherine Lys

Advertising Representatives:

Barney O’Hara & Associates, Inc.

Bob LaBuddie, 2640 Golf Rd., Suite
219 Glenview, IL 60025 (312) 724-5490 !

Rod Serling’s The Tiuilight Zone Mag[azine, 1983, Volume
3, Number 1, is published bimonthly in the United States
and simultaneously in Canada by TZ Publications, Inc.,
800 Second Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10017. Telephone
^12) 986-9600. Copyright © 19^ by TZ Publications, Inc.
Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Ma^^ine is published
pursuant to a license from Carolyn ^rling and Viacom
Enterprises, a division of Viacom International, Inc. All
rights reserved. Second-class postage paid at New York,
NY, and at additional mailing offices. Responsibility is not
assumed for unsolicited materials. Return postage must
accompany all unsolicited material if return is requested.
All rights reserved on material accepted for publication
unless otherwise specified. All letters sent to Rod
Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine or to its editors are
assumed intended for publication. Nothing may be
reproduced in whole or in part without written permission
from the publishers. Any similarity between persons
appearing in fiction and real persons living or dead is
coincidental. Single copies $2.50 in U.S., $3 in Canada.
Subscriptions: U.S., U.S. possessions, Canada, and APO—
one year, 6 issues: $15 ($18 in Canadian currency).
Postmaster: Send address changes to P.O. Box 252, Mt.
Morris, 11 61054. Printed in U.S. A.

7

. .and It lays this giant egg.” An eagle-eyed David Corradine, os a New
York cop, is slightly turned around in his search tor Quetzalcoatl, the mythical
flying serpent In Q. Well, not so mythical, obviously.

Screen

by Gahan Wilson

Q

(United Film Distribution Compjjiny)
Written and directed
by Larry Cohen

Halloween III

(Universal)

Written and directed
by Tommy Lee Wallace

Creepshow

(Laurel Show)

Directed by George A. Romero
Screenplay by Stephen King

“The Muse is a tough buck!’

— S. J. Perelman

Arts vary considerably in the
amount of cash that must be laid
out if the artist is to pursue them,
and a budding talent would be well
advised to seriously consider the
financial aspects of the various
muses before he makes a firm
aesthetic commitment.

Charcoal drawing, for example,
is wonderfully inexpensive, which is
why it is generally the medium
chosen by the beginning student.

One piece of paper can be used over
and over as each sketch can be
smoothly wiped away by a sweep of
the chamois, leaving an ever richer
grey background which provides
excellent contrast for highlights
picked out with a kneaded eraser.

Or if the student is unremittingly
bohemian, a wedge of French bread
will do the trick.

Painting varies, depending on
the quality of the brand of paint
8

chosen (though one mustn’t forget
posterity; it wouldn’t do to have
one’s little efforts bleach or bleed
whilst hanging before the gaze of
future admiring throngs on the
walls of the Louvre) and the
material painted upon (there is a
considerable range of price between
highest quality canvas and a chunk
of old wall board). But we are
still in an area of high economy,
particularly if the starving artist is
careful to restrict his pallet a la
Picasso of the red and blue periods.

The graphics start to get you
into trouble. Here we find ourselves
getting involved with metal plates
and acid baths, or with huge stones
needing grinding, and, worst of all,
with elaborate presses and very
expensive papers.

Sculpture is even grimmer, .
because now you have moved into
an area where large amounts of
working and storage space are a
must; and even more significant in
relation to the artist’s pocketbook,
many other people must be employed
if the work of art is to be
completed and arrive at the gallery.
Castings must be made and the
molds filled with costly metals; the
resulting, very heavy objets must
be safely crated by experts and
somehow transported to the
exhibition. The artist is no longer
able to do his creative work in

solitary peace and quiet. He must
general a small army.

Then we move into the
theatrical arts wherein a stage is
needed, and sets, and musicians and
costumers and ticket takers, and
there is no longer one artist but a
bevy of artists, each a specialist and
each trying, sometimes successfully,
sometimes not, to mesh his
particular art with the arts of all
the rest. The financial requirements
now soar so high that a new
character enters, the individual who
one way or another provides the
enormous amount of money needed
for the enterprise and who determines
the method of its doling out. The
producer comes into his own.

But while he is important in
stage productions, it is in the
creative art of the film that he
really steps into the foreground. He
dominates. He multiplies. He splits
into armies of producers. He clones
himself over and over, and each
separate clone needs its own
lawyers and accountants. Nothing
happens, not one frame of film is
shot, nor the first sketch of any set
drawn, nor any luncheon with an
actor’s agent held, before it is
okayed by the producers, the money
people.

And so most understandably,
and more and more, everything
about the creation of a new ,

. .o nice loony chilliness.'' Dan O'Herlihy, as a maniacal mask-maker,
mugs with one of his creations in Halloween III.

movie— its aesthetics, its
entertainment value, its morality— is
I filtered through one solitary sieve:

; will it make money?

' This doesn’t rule out good
movies; people often pay good
money for good movies.

And it certainly doesn’t rule out
bad movies.

A trio of movies in our
particular field of interest which
were very decidedly designed to
! make money hit the nabes recently,
with varying results. One interesting
thing about producers is that, all
appearances to the contrary, they
are human, i.e., they do blunder
now and then. Avarice and cupidity
may make for alertness and even a
kind of sharpness, but it does not
altogether conquer stupidity nor rule
out bad judgment, and many a film
that was ruthlessly constructed to
score with the hoi polloi has bombed
gloriously at the box office.

The basic concepts of Q must
have sounded good over duck salad
at Ma Maison. What about this
flying monster that makes its nest in
the Chrysler Building’s art deco
crown, Harry, and it lays this giant
egg? What Harry should have done
was to make some off-the-cuff joke
about laying giant eggs and gone on
with his salad, but instead he
listened— the human element. And
so they went on talking. How about
you got this priest making human
sacrifices by skinning them alive,
Harry? I can see Harry nodding,
chewing his duck, making a big
mistake.

There are really some rather
nice things about the movie. The
monster itself is prettily executed,
and there are some quite original
effects involved, such as the shadow
of the creature flapping over the
building of Manhattan. David
! Carradine does a good job of
playing an intelligent cop, only the
script doesn’t give him much to play
with, and there are some very
clever visual jokes concerning the
creature’s lair and its habit of
feeding on New Yorkers exposed
on the upper reaches of their
skyscrapers.

But there is far too much self-
indulgence throughout. The pianist,
Michael Moriarty, desperately needs
i control as an actor, but instead he’s
I unleashed. An awful lot of dialogue

could have been trimmed. The
pacing is amateurish, the cutting
awkward, and there is much
sloppiness in motivations and
explanations. Why, for example, is
the enormous monster never
observed winging its way over New
York? Because, explains the movie,
he flies in a line with the sun, and
so viewers looking up are blinded by
the light. All very well for folk
living in Flatland, maybe, but the
people in the Big Apple live in tall
buildings— indeed, it’s one of their
most noticeable characteristics— and
it gives them the opportunity to
have many different points of view.
Probably it’s one of the main
reasons most of them live there.

And so much for that.

Q is, essentially, one of those
horror movies made by people who
feel superior to horror movies, and
that hardly ever works. The sillier
your monster the more seriously you
have to take him, especially if you’re
kidding around. When I saw the
movie there were only myself and
two elderly gentlemen in the theater,
all of us widely separated by empty
seats, and as I left I heard the ticket
taker wonder aloud to the usher why
such a nice man as David Carradine
had allowed himself to get involved
with such a thing. TheyJjoth shook
their heads. Sorry, Harry.

Halloween III was decidedly
inspired by the profit motive and, so
far ^ least, seems to have done very
well indeed by its avaricious creators.
Unfortunately it does not succeed too
well on any other front.

I had high hopes for it because
I’d heard it was scripted by Nigel
Kneale, whose “Quatermass” scripts
gave Hammer Studios the courage
and loot to go on and make all those
red-blooded Draculas and such.

Kneale has a fine, sure sense of
paranoia, a masterly ability to show
that tiny, almost unnoticeably askew
detail which, if noticed by the
suitably nervous observer, shows
conclusively that everything else is
hopelessly wrong and, what is worse,
dangerov^s. He is particularly good at
taking solid institutions— say a
perfectly respectable oil refinery— and
making them essential to the
Martians’ plan for taking over the
planet Earth.

I suspected that something had
gone wrong when I saw that
Kneale’s name had been replaced in
the screen credits by that of director
Tommy Lee Wallace. I don’t know
what that signifies, but the results
are considerably less effective than
what I’d come to expect from the
talented Mr. Kneale.

Nonetheless, there are hints of
the Kneale magic in the earlier phases

9

! SCREEN

! , o kind of frantic, staring

i loneliness. " Stephen King ploys on
j unfortunate rube doomed to disappear
beneath "progressivelY thicker mounds
of green goop" in Creepshow.

of Halloween III. Sinister little grey
men— Kneale has a particular feel for
the horribleness of bureaucracy-
doing nasty things. Implications of
terrible forces awakened and
beginning to roll. The sense that
everybody was being sucked into
someone’s sinister dark plan.

But then it starts to go soft and
unconvincing. Maybe it’s all just a
shade too mechanical, or perhaps
the babbling drunk recycled from
Lovecraft’s “Shadow Over
Innsmouth” is not done well, or
maybe it’s that we get too clear an
idea of what’s going on too soon.
Paranoia flourishes best in the
; misty dark with the half-heard
: footstep behind. There’s too much
explanation in this movie. We know
far too much about the source of
the danger and the direction from
which it’s likely to come.

Furthermore, we have come*to
an era of hero/villain conflict, and
Halloween HI is out of date.
Nowadays the hero must foil the
villain in one of two ways: (1) as a
lighthearted joke in the James Bond
tradition wherein the atomic-
powered rockets and laser beams of
the ingenious fiend are thwarted
by the hero’s clever use of a
champagne cork (such a solution is
in no way convincing, but it is
: amusing), or (2) in an entirely
believable, serious fashion, playing
strictly by the rules that the film
itself has set up regarding the
10

relative strengths of the
protagonists. Halloween HI fails to
meet either one of these game
plans, and the audience I heard
going out was quite irritated at this
failure. They didn’t believe the
hero’s besting of the menace for a
minute, and they were most
annoyed. Several of them worked
out alternate (and, I must say, more
convincing) solutions, feeling,
apparently, that since Halloween HI
hadn’t done the thing properly,
they’d do it themselves.

The cast is not very good, and
the characters they’re trying to
play are— even for a movie of this
kind— extremely unconvincing. The
villain is played by the only real
actor in sight, Dan O’Herlihy, and
while he does manage to infuse the
character with a nice loony
chilliness, the creature is so ill-
defined and fuzzy that he’s got
almost nothing to work with.

Seems a pity.

The third entry into the Big
Bucks Sweepstake is by far the
best: Creepshow. This is perhaps
one of the most unabashed grabs
for cash ever to hit your local
theater, but there’s such innocent
greed about it all that it’s hard to
take offense. I mean, these folks are
desperate to get rich! They’ve
decked out the ticket ladies in
special t-shirts and God only knows
what else.

The film itself is an unabashed
adoration of the old EC comics and
makes very good use of the feel of
those outrageous publications, even
to the tacky ads. It is different
from any of the other movies that
George Romero’s directed in that all
the rest have aspired to art, one
way or another, but Creepshow does
not. It is pure and simple
entertainment of a wild and raucous
nature with no aspirations outside of
trying to give the audience the
wildest and woolliest roller coaster
ride it can arrange.

The cast is far and away the
fanciest Romero’s ever worked with,
lots of name character actors, and
everybody seems to be having a fine
time. The whole feel of the movie
indicates everybody was enjoying
himself whether that was the case
or not.

Steve King wrote the stories
and, again, obviously enjoyed doing

them; as with Romero, there is no
indication he was in any way taking
himself seriously. They are all quite
successful pastiches of the BOO! and
GRRRR! and OH MY GAWD!!!!
school, and constructed in such a
fashion so as to insure that you
jump in your seat about every five
and a half minutes. Romero
persuaded King to star in one of
the episodes wearing progressively
thicker mounds of green goop,
which can’t have made this first
attempt at acting any easier. Fuzz
and all, however, he manages to
invest his unfortunate rube with a
kind of frantic, staring loneliness
which ends up being oddly touching.

Tom Savini is responsible for
the various monsters and whatnot
jumping out at the viewer. Some of
them are quite spectacular, and all
of them are stone loyal to the EC
tradition. There is, in particular, a
rotting (what else?) ambulatory
corpse which catches the total
unbelievability of those old comic-
book drawings, and it has been
given a voice which, I must say, is
an inspired rendering of what such
an outrageous revenant would
probably sound like.

My favorite, by far, of all the
episodes concerns a thing in a crate
which— well, I guess I won’t be
giving anything away when I say
that it kills people. Horribly, of
course. And it is a marvelous thing
indeed, a dandy, hairy thing with
fine teeth and all. But the part
about the episode which makes it
the runaway star of the whole
production, so far as I’m concerned,
is the performance of Fritz Weaver
as a terrified EC comics victim. He

is, friends, absolutely super. Never
did anybody shudder better. I loved

it, loved it, loved it. Atta baby,

Fritz! I hope all you guys make
billions.

In closing, I’d like to mention a
film which is borderline material for
us, but which is plenty spooky, and
which does have a mass murderer
who is totally out of her skull, and
which hinges on a horrifying dream
involving a bleeding teddy bear . . .
so maybe it’s not so borderline after
all. It’s badly titled Still of the Night
(when we previewed it last March it
was Stab), and if you feel in the
mood for a slick, scary murder
mystery, it has my recommendation. |B

O T E R D I M E

Books by Thomas M. Disch

“The time has been,” Macbeth
reminisces in Act V, “my senses
would have cool’d to hear a night-
shriek, and my fell of hair would at
a dismal treatise rouse and stir as
life were in it.” Read a few too
many dismal treatises, however, and
you may find, along with Macbeth,
that: “I have supp’d full with
horrors; direness, familiar to my
slaughterous thoughts, cannot once
start me.”

It may be, however, that this
disclaimer, coming just before his
“tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow” speech, is the theatrical
equivalent to the obligatory false
alarm in every horror movie when
the cat leaps out from behind the
curtains and we all shriek, and then
have to laugh just to reassure
ourselves that “It’s only the
cat!”— though we know quite wdl
that there is enough direness ahead
of us to cool our senses to freezing.
Not only such basic physical
direness as death, disease, the
frailty and corruption of the flesh,
the hunger of various predators, and
the dangers posed by psychopaths at
loose after dark, but the fur^er,
horrible suspicion that the social
system we are necessarily a part of,
which is supposed to keep these
dangers at bay, may instead have
formed some kind of unholy alliance
with them— the suspicion, to put it
another way, that Macbeth may be
the person who’s answering the
phone when we dial 911.

Those are enough different
varieties of direness to guarantee
some degree of timeliness and
universality to the genre of the
horror story. This plentitude
explains why the range of the
horror story, in terms of literary
sophistication, should be wider than
that of any other literary genre,
running the gamut from the
elemental night- shrieking nastiness
of E.C. Comics to the highbrow
frissons of James’s Turn of the
Screw or Kafka’s Metamorphosis.
Horror, like his brother Death, is an
equal opportunity employer.

To the degree that a theme is
universal, it is in proportion
exploitable, and the proliferation of
schlock horror novels in the wake of
such box office successes as The
Omen series, et al, is hardly to be
wondered at. So 'long as there are
rustics to buy ballad- sheets there

12

will be balladeers to supply them,
though as the mean reading speed
of the audience and the technology
of printing have both greatly
advanced in recent centuries, it’s
not ballad-sheets that are hawked
nowadays but paperback originals.

Without dwelling on the easy
irony of the world “original,” let’s
take a quick peek inside a recent
329-page ballad-sheet brought out by
Pocket Books, The Deathstone
($3.50) by Ken Eulo, author of The
Bloodstone and The Brownstone
(and, doubtless, if the market holds
up, of The Headstone, The
Whetstone, and The Rhinestone).
There is nothing intrinsically
unworkable in the book’s premise of
a small town keeping up the pagan
tradition of human sacrifice; it’s
done yeoman service for Shirley
Jackson’s story, “The Lottery,” and
the movie The Wicker Man. Horror
stories are usually ritual
reenactments of favorite myths.
What sinks Eulo’s book to the rock-
bottom of the sophistication
spectrum (from sappy to savvy) is
the style of his reenactment, a style
that is equal parts soap-opera
mawkish and button-pushing
portentous, graduating to dithering
hysteria for the big moments:

They were circling the fire now,
dancing in a madman's frenzy,
delirium, their huge animal heads
weaving in and out of shadows. The
fire blazed up with a roar, sending a
column of red flames soaring. They
moaned and wailed and shouted. Even
though the words were unintelligible,
Ron felt that their hideous shrieks were
like a hand held toward him, a
handshake with death.

Don’t worry, though, kids. Ron
doesn’t die. He saves Chandal and
little Kristy from the Widow
Wheatley and the other wicked
Satanists and returns to his talent
agency in Hollywood.

For some readers, it may
be, the very unnaturalness and
ineptitude of the lower grade of
occult novels are welcome distancing
devices from what might otherwise
be too scary, too close for comfort.
For them, mustache-twirling villainy
and dime-store Halloween masks
serve the same sanitizing function
that the code of genteel taste serves

S T O N s|

for readers of more middlebrow
spine-masseurs (tinglers they’re not),
such as Jonathan Carroll’s Voice of
Our Shadow (Viking $13.50).
Carroll’s second novel (and a great
comedown from his first. The Land
of Laughs) is a preppy ghost story
as decorously conventional and
capably tailored as a Brooks
Brothers suit. So long as it keeps
within the city limits of
psychological realism, as it does in
its portrait of a bullying older
brother or its depiction of a young
man’s first, all-too-trepid adultery, it
makes a book like Eulo’s look like a
styrofoam dinner service. But when
the adulterous wife’s suicidal
husband returns to haunt the guilty
couple, Carroll’s novel runs out of
imaginative gas. Carroll just doesn’t
believe in ghosts, and his disbelief is
contagious. But does anyone believe
in ghosts, after all? If they were on
their oaths. I’m sure most of the
best ghost-story writers would admit
that their ghosts are symbols of
Something Else. Which is a
roundabout way of saying that,
finally, both Eulo and Carroll (and
unnumbered others) fail for a similar
reason— a reluctance to make eye
contact with their fears. Instead of
real horrors to sup upon, with meat
and maggots on their bones, they
offer plastic skeletons.

Stephen King is another matter.
He has enjoyed his success precisely
because he’s remained true to his
own clearest sense of what is
fearful, fearfuler, fearfulest. What
King fears is his own and other
people’s capacity for cruelty and
brutality; madness, loneliness,
disease, pain, and death; men,
women, most forms of animal life,
and the weather. When King
I introduces supernatural or
paranormal elements into his tales it
is as a stand-in for one of the
: above-mentioned “natural” fears.

; Thus, Carrie’s telekinetic powers in
j his first novel are emblematic of the
I force of a long-stifled anger
I erupting into rage, and the horror
of ’Salem’s Lot is that of witnessing
the archetypal Our Town of
Rockwell, Wilder, and Bradbury
electing Dracula as mayor and
appointing his wives to the Board of
Education.

King’s latest book. Different
Seasons (Viking, $16.95), is a

collection of four c}uite separate
tales, only one of which (and that,
thankfully, the shortest) failed to
shiver my timbers perceptibly. The
other three, in ascending order both
of length and personal preference,
are: “Rita Hayworth and
Shawshank Redemption,” a quietly
paranoid curtain-raiser that
persuaded me never to be framed
for murder and sentenced to life
imprisonment; “The Body,” a vivid
if sometimes self-consciously
“serious” account of the rites of
passage practiced by the aboriginal
teenagers of Maine’s lower-middle
classes (and a telling pendant to the
novel ’Salem’s Lot); finally, the
hands-down winner of the four and,

I think. King’s most accomplished
piece of fiction at any length, “Apt
Pupil.” (In his book’s afterword.
King complains about the difficulty
of publishing novellas of 25,000 to
35,000 words. Yet “The Body” and
“Apt Pupil” are respectively, double
those lengths, and even the shorter
tale would have made a weightier
book than Carroll’s Voice of Our
Shadow. I don’t mean to look a gift
horse in the mouth, only to point
out that Different Seasons is more
nearly a collection of novels than of
stories.)

The premise for “Apt Pupil”
could scarcely be simpler. A bright,
all-American thirteen-year-old
discovers that one of his suburban
neighbors was the infamous Kurt
Dussander, commandant of a Nazi
death camp. Instead of reporting
Dussander to the police, this
paragon of the eighth grade begins
to blackmail him— not for money but
just “to hear about it”;

"Hear about it?" Dussander
echoed. He looked utterly perplexed.

Todd leaned forward, tanned
elbows on bluejeaned knees. "Sure. The
firing squads. The gas chambers. The
ovens. The guys who had to dig their
■own graves and then stand on the
ends so they'd fall into them. The ..."
His tongue came out and wetted his
lips. "The examinations. The experiments.
Everything. All the gooshy stuff."

Dussander stared at him with a
certain amazed detachment, the way
a veterinarian might stare at a cat
who was giving birth to a succession of
two-heoded kittens. "You are a
monster," he said softly.

To tell more of how this oddest of
all couples leapfrog down the road
to damnation would be a disservice
to anyone who hasn’t yet read the
book. I’m told by those who have a
hand on the pulse of sf and fantasy
fandom that “Apt Pupil” has not
been exactly taken to the hearts of
King’s usually quite faithful subjects.
I can only suppose that is a tribute
to how closely it cuts to the bone.
Surely, in terms simply of
generating suspense and keeping the
plot twisting, “Apt Pupil” cannot be
faulted. I hope Losey gets to make
the movie, or that Hitchcock could
return from the grave for just one
more production. Not since
Strangers on a Train has there
been a plot so perfectly suited to his
passion for ethical symmetries.

So far in this column super-
natural horror has been batting
zero, since King has throughout
Different Seasons kept to the hither
side of the natural/supernatural
divide. It’s both a pleasure and a
relief, therefore, to be able to
recommend one novel— and a first
novel at that— comes from the
Twilight Zone’s heart of darkness:
Nightflyer by Christopher Fahy
(Jove, $2.95). Nightflyer is a
shamelessly satisfying fantasy of a
twerp who turns into an avenger by
achieving out-of-body flight, zapping
all the bullies who’d been kicking
sand in his face and then zapping
. . . but that would be telling. If you
enjoyed King’s Carrie, you’ll enjoy
Fahy’s Jonathan to just the same
degree. The prose is that ideal
compromise between plain and vivid
that allows the story to unreel
through the videocassette player of
the imagination to maximum
vicarious effect. The ending gets
predictable, and Fahy’s theory of
astral projection is too trouble-free.
Jonathan never has ignition -

problems. For purposes of plot a
writer should always keep a little
Ki^tonite in reserve. Those
quibbles aside, Nightflyer is fresh
hot buttered popcorn.

Now for the Annuals. There are
three: Terry Carr’s Fantasy Annual :

V (Timescape, $2.95), Arthur W.
Saha’s The Year’s Best Fantasy
Stories: 8, and Karl Edward
Wagner’s The Year’s Best Horror
Stories: Series X (both from DAW,
$2.50 each). There is no stand-out
winner, though Carr did the best
job at second-guessing the various
awards. His annual includes Michael
Bishop’s deserving Nebula winner,
“The Quickening,” a story that
boasts that greatest rarity, an
entirely new idea; to wit. What if,
suddenly, everyone in the world
were somewhere else? Bishop
doesn’t concern himself with how or
why this happens, but his answer to
that what-if is forceful, logical, and
poetic; “The Fire When It Comes”
by Parke Godwin, which won a
World Fantasy Award and was a
nominee for both the Hugo and
Nebula, and which I thought treacly
in its psychobabbling sentimentality
(but«clearly that is a minority
verdict); James Tiptree, Jr.’s
“Lirios: A Tale of the Quintana
Roo,” a lyrical ghost story that was
also a Nebula nominee; and Tony
Sarowitz’s “Dinosaurs on
Broadway,” which won a
Transatlantic Review Award,
and simply as a fantasmal
transformation of Manhattan’s
Upper West Side makes the Godwin
story look like a set for Sesame
Street. There are also good ghost
stories by George R.R. Martin and
C.J. Cherryh, plus representative
(but not spectacular) stories by
Silverberg, Zelazny, and yours truly.

Not a bad showing at all, but
not so luminous as to cast the other
two annuals in the shade. Saha’s
should be read if only for the charm
of Zelazny’s Hugo-winning “Unicorn
Variation” and Lisa Tuttle’s “A
Friend in Need,” a story so tasteful
you could read it aloud to the Queen
Mother— and yet entirely enjoyable
for all that! (Caveat emptor: the
back cover of Carr’s annual
promises Tuttle’s story as among its
contents, but it is not there.) And
the Wagner anthology has no less
than a half-dozen tales that stand
up to the best in Carr’s book.

13

r

BOOKS

including two by Ramsey Campbell; | horripilate the scalp. I peculiar, unexpected statue to pick :

a World Fantasy Award Winner, i up the pace of a flagging tale. 1

“The Dark Country,” by Dennis Readers whose avidity for I A final quote that I can’t resist |

Etchison (this time I agree with the i horror is not easily sated and who | —from the synofisis of Gothic Novel |

judges); an intense vignette from | would be interested in exploring the : 46, Grenville Fletcher’s Rosalviva,

Running Times by David Clayton ! attic, so to speak, of this venerable j or, The Demon Dwarf of 1824:

Carrad; “Egnaro” by M. John i genre should order a copy of The | At this point a character known as

Harrison, who is, as ever, in top < Gothic Novel (1790-1830): Plot the Demon Dwarf appears and reminds

form; and the triple-authored Summaries and Index to Motifs by Goifieri of his first murder; he ciaims

“Touring,” by Dozois, Dann, and Ann B. Tracy (University Press of kinship with Leontini. He and Rosaiviva

Swanwick, wherein the ghosts of Kentucky, Lexington, KY 40506, become associates and at iast he

Elvis, Janis Joplin, and Buddy Holly $14). Tracy’s compendium of plot consents to kiii Froncesca and move

get together for a concert in Fargo, synopses of over two hundred gothic her body to Rosalviva's own vauits so

North Dakota. novels, most of them unavailable she can enjoy the sight of it, but on

The trouble with Wagner’s even at large research libraries, is a condition that Ro&aiviva belong to him,

collection (and to a lesser degree source both of hoots and of vintage Rosalviva hopes to win back Goifieri,

with Carr’s and Saha’s) is that new material for the aspiring but he has repented and is mourning

horror stories are necessarily limited gothicist. Consider, if you will, the his wife; this makes Rosalviva so angry

in their emotional range. There are motif index’s offerings under: that she decides 1o lock him up with

only so many tones of voice suitable “Statue, peculiar: animated, 2, 75; the decaying body of his wife and

to telling tales of horror; the dismal, with bleeding nose, 193; with hang him later. Suddenly the Dwarf

the dire, the stricken, the sad, the disappearing helmet, 193; with reveals that he is really Leontini and i

lunatic. After a while one begin# secret button, 1, 99; silver, with that Francesca is x>t dead. Rosalviva, '

to echo Macbeth’s complaint, 1 holy relics, 74; unexpected, 47, 62.” stunned and terrified, commits suicide. |

and direness can no more i Truly, there’s nothing like a ' Leontini marries his first iove, Viola. iS

^ U.S. POSTAL SERVICE STATEhlENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAQEM6NT AND CIRCUIATION (raquirad by 39 U.S.C. 3«6) 1. Till* of
pubflccUon ROO SERLINO’S THE TWIUQHT ZONE MAGAZINE 1A Publication No. 143n 2. DM of fWng Oct. 19, 1992 3. Praquoncy
of Mua rnomhly NOTE: Praquancy changaa to bimontbly affactiva 1983 3A No. of itauaa publshod annualy 12 3B. Annual tubacflp-
tfon prica 922. 4. CocnpMa malting addraaa of known offlca of pubkcMon (not primars) 800 Sacond Avanua. Now Vork, N.Y. 10017

$. Compton maWng Bddrass of tha haadquartam or ganaral buainaas officas of tha puMabaia (not pdntara) 800 Sacond Avanua, Naw

York, N.Y. 10017 6. PuH namaa and eompiala matUng addraaa of puWiahar, adilor. and managing adtior: Eric Prottar, PubUatiar. 800
Sacond Avanua. Naw York. N.Y. 10017, T.E.O. Klain, Editor. 800 Sacond Avanua. Naw York 10017. Jana Bayar. Managtog Editor, 800
Sacond Avanua. Naw York. N.Y. 10017. Ownar or atockboldart owning or hoMkig 1 parcant or mora of total amount of atock: TZ
Publications, Inc.. 800 Sacond Avanua, Naw York. N.Y. 10017, Mordcalm Pubaati^ Corp.. sama as abova. Eric ProMar, aama as
abova. Nils Stii^iro. 3420 Ocsan Park Slvd. Santa Monica. CA 90405 8. Known bondholdari. Nona 9. For compiatlon by nonprofit
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Capias not dtstributad 1 . Offlca usa, tall ovar. tmacoountad. a poitad attar prirnlrtg 987 2. Ratwm from rwws agsnts 1 18.141 G. Total
(sum of E. PI and 2— should aqual nai praas run shown in A) 170,119 Actual no. eoptan of aingta iaaua pubBshad naaraat to BHng data
A. Total no. copias (nat praas run) 150.085 B. Paid circulation 1 . Salat Ihorugh daalati and carriaca. straat vandors and courdor aalat
48,061 2. Mad aubacfiplion 16,985 C. Total paid circulation (sum of tOSl and 10B2) 63.i]38 D. Praa JMilOution by maH. carrlar or oVtar
moans, samptas, com^maotary , and ottiar fraa c oplaa 521 E. Total diakibullon (sum of C and 0)63.557 F. Capias not dlsirlbulod i. Of-
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aqual naf praas run shown in A) 150985. 1 caitify that thastatamantamada by maabmsata corraci and compMa. Signaiura and ma
of adttor, publlthar, businaas managar. or ownar ERIC PROTTER, PUBUSHER

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Video

by Joel A. Samberg

T here is nothing wrong with
your television set. It is just
not being used properly.

The fault, how<;ver, lies not
within yourself, but within the
networks and the home video
industry. The networks claim they
give us what we want, but how can
they really know? 'ATien was the
last time they called you on the
phone or knocked at your door? The
home video industry should have
enabled us by now to watch
thousands of great old tv shows and
movies, but we can’t; There are still
too many questions about royalties
and too many problems concerning
piracy and illegal duplication.

Says David Weiner, research
editor at the National Video
Clearinghouse in New York, “As
the largest video information center
in the country, we get many
inquiries about the videocassette
availability of shows like The
Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits,
Suspense, Thriller, and Alfred
Hitchcock Presents. Of these, only
one episode of The Twilight Zone is
on videotape, and even that wasn’t
originally produced for the series; it
was a French short subject called
‘An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge.’ ’’ Less than a handful of
other mystery and suspense
programs from American tv join
“Owl Creek Bridge’’ in the home
video market. Too bad.

Today many shows in each new
television season (bland as they may
be) are based around the highest-
rated pilots. A few seasons back the
category was “jigglevision,” with
the antics of Farrah Fawcett,
Suzanne Somers, ard Loni Anderson
graciously bestowed upon us. Last
season it was the return of the old
lawmen, with stars like Robert
Stack, Jam^s Arness, and Mike
Connors.

In the fifties and early sixties,
however, much of what we saw was
based on the imaginations of great
writers like Rod Serling, Reginald
Rose, Paddy Chayefsky, and Abby
Mann, not on the success of any one
pilot. Each episode left more to the
imagination than to the star value.

In terms of acting, writing, and
directing, the emphasis was on
talent, not titillation. Furthermore,
there was something: about the black

and white coolness and the small-
screen distance that made these
shows— at least the mystery and
suspense programs— eerie and
foreboding.

When the first videocassette
machines for the home were
introduced back in 1975, no one
knew what kind of prerecorded
programs would be marketed to
play on them. A few veteran
distributors of 16mm films for
schools, hospitals, and special
interest groups quickly got into the
act by marketing public domain
movies, low-budget flicks, and
how-to and instructional programs
made for very specialized audiences
(like “Police Officer Training’’ and
“Shelter Construction in Winter”).

Soon the motion picture studios
jumped in by releasing (through
separate home video divisions) their
major pictures, like Butch Cassidy
and the Sundance Kid, A Little
Romance, and Saturday Night
Fever. Recent features and older
classics remain the primary draw
of home video. More generalized
how-to and instructional programs
have been produced exclusively for
the home video market to teach
everything from aerobic exercise
to self-defense. Music and comedy
tapes have appeared, and even
television has been making inroads
with comedy and variety programs
like Ozzie and Harriet, The Milton
Berle Show, Amos and Andy, and
Kraft Music Hall having episodes
represented. Many small,
independent companies have been
founded within the past three years
to acquire and distribute these
videocassette programs.

Of the thousands of series and
specials broadcast over the past
thirty years, only about two hundred
individual shows are presently being
marketed on prerecorded
videocassettes. Many hundreds more
are gone forever, having been
performed live and never
kinescoped. Our interest here is in
the mystery, fantasy, and suspense '
pro^ams of the fifties and early
sixties. For more of them to make
it to the home video arena, the
original producers who own the
shows and the syndication
companies that handle their rerun
distribution must be willing to

license episodes to video firms for
national distribution (or to get into
video marketing themselves).

Both are afraid, however, that
the cassette versions of their
properties will be duplicated and
pirated, and that the creative and
technical talents they represent will *
be (Cheated out of proper residuals.
Their worries are not unfounded;
video piracy is certainly a problem
today.

Video Swapper (29912 Little
Mack Avenue, Roseville, MI 48066),
the major consumer video magazine
that caters to those who wish to sell
or trade cassettes, has a section
called “Collector’s Showcase.”
Publisher Gary Mancuso
acknowledges that he has seen a
few ads placed for the selling or
trading of Twilight Zone episodes
that must have been taped off the
air, even though the magazine tries
to make it known that it does not
encourage such activity.

“We say in the magazine that
we are not responsible for any of
the advertisements,” Mancuso
explains. Furthermore, the editorial
staff periodically runs articles about
home taping and copyright
infringement to keep their readers
informed about the laws and their
meanings.

The Videophile, which recently
suspended publication in Tallahassee,
Florida, always ran a notice in its
“Mini- Ads” section that said, in
part, “It is not our intention to
serve as a conduit through which

15

Illustration by Florence Neal

VIDEO

the illegal duplication or sale of
copyright material may be
accomplished. We will not knowingly
accept advertising for the sale of
such material.” Nevertheless, “Mini-
Ads” was crowded with sale and
trade requests for many movies and
tv shows that haven’t been
legitimately released on cassette.
Editor and publisher Jim Lowe says
he may try to begin publishing
again in the near future at a new
location.

Dave Weiner of the National
Viedo Clearinghouse says he knows
of people who have taped nearly
every episode of every great
mystery and suspense program of
the fifties and sixties. “One guy I
know has two television sets and
two videocassette recorders,”

Weiner says. “Both VCRs are either
always recording or are on the *
timer to record at a later time. He
has thousands of dollars worth of
blank cassettes. He tapes reruns off
network and local stations, and his
cable hookup enables him to tape
shows off local channels from out of
town. And with two machines he
can duplicate tapes that he borrows
from other video hobbyists. He’s a
nut.”

Nut or not (criminal or not), this
gentleman has a videocassette
library of old tv shows that the
networks would be envious of. But
what about the programs that are
legally available? Here’s a rundown.

“An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge” was shown on The Tiuilight
Zone in 1962 (see Show-By-Show
Guide, page 101). It was based on a
short story by Ambrose Bierce.
Bierce, born in 1842, often wrote
about soldiers and wartime civilians,
with something of a misanthropic
point of view. In fact, one
biographer characterized his life as
being filled with “dead ends,
failures, and tragedies.” Made into a
short film by Robert Enrico in 1957,
“An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge” concerns a spy during the
Civil War who is condemned to be
hanged. He manages to escape by
the sheer strength of his convictions
and seems to make his way home to
his wife. He soon meets an ironic
and supernatural destiny, perhaps
finding fulfillment, perhaps not.
Enrico made effective use of
manipulative camera work and
editing, with subjective angles, quick

16

cuts, and exhaustive pacing. “Owl
Creek” is a neat little story, but it
is not even in The Twilight Zone
syndication package shown in some
cities. It is available from three or
four video program distributors,
such as Festival Films and Shokus
Video. (Festival is at 4445 Aldrich
Avenue South, Minneapolis, MN
55409. Shokus is at P.O. Box 8434,
Van Nuys, CA 91409.)

Festival Films specializes in
16mm classics. Its owners like film
better than video, but will make
most of their titles available on
cassette for anyone who requests it.
They claim that, to the best of their
knowledge, all films listed for sale
in their catalog are in the public
domain and not under copyright in
this country. They include Night
and Fog, Nosferatu (the 1922 silent
version). Triumph of the Will, and
other film school standards.

Shokus Video, whose executives
assert that tape is their only
business, has (besides “Owl Creek”)
a package of old tv shows marketed
under tbe umbrella title “Mystery
and Espionage.” A single episode of
four separate old shows are
included. They are Overseas
Adventure, Secret File USA,
Waterfront, and Dr. Hudson’s Secret
Journal. Company President Stuart
Shostak says that all four shows are
“campy” but interesting for their
tv-historical value.

Shostak buys old tv shows and
outtake reels in the public domain,
dubs them onto video cassettes, and
sells them to trivia buffs and
nostalgia addicts. He always
performs copyright searches on all
his programs and offers verifications
to anyone who inquires.

Companies like Discount Video
(1117 North Hollywood Way,
Burbank, CA 91510), Video
Dimensions (110 East 23rd Street,
New York, NY 10010), and
Nostalgia Merchant (6255 Sunset
Boulevard, Hollywood, CA 90028)
disti'ibute not only titles that can be
found only in their catalogs, but
titles from many other suppliers as
well. Every once in a while an
episode from one of the great old
shows surfaces. Latest in the
Discount catalog is an episode from
Tales of Tomorrow called
“Windows,” starring Rod Steiger.
Tales of Tomorrow ran from
August, 1951, to June, 1953, on

ABC. Nostalgia Merchant carries
two cassettes with four Tomorrow
episodes on each, including
“Frankenstein” with Lon Chaney,
“Appointment on Mars” with Leslie
Nielsen, and “Past Tense” with
Boris Karloff.

Video Dimensions maintains a
programming emphasis on surreal
and oddball show's, like The Betty
Boop Festival and Carson’s Cellar
(Johnny’s first, low-budget show),
but they also have the pilot of Lost
in Space. In fact, the pilot episode,
aired on September 15, 1965, is a
treasured possession of many video
program suppliers. That, of course,
was the one in which Dr. Smith,
working for a foreign government,
attempted to sabatoge the Robinson
family’s five-year mission to Alpha
Centauri by progjramming the robot
to blow up the ship after take-off.

Paramount Home Video (a
division of Paramount Pictures at
5451 Marathon Street, Hollywood,
CA 90038) now distributes quite a
few episodes of Star Trek on
cassette. They include “The Tholian
Web,” “Mirror, Mirror,” “The
Menagerie” (which was the first
pilot starring Jeffrey Hunter as
Captain Pike), and “City on the
Edge of Forever,” written by
Harlan Ellison.

Paramount Home Video is one
of the studio-related firms involved
in home video, along with 20th
Century-Fox Video, Columbia
Pictures Home Entertainment, and
Warner Home Video. Most deal
exclusively with retail stores and
have various sakjs and rental plans.
The independent firms— Festival
Films, Shokus Video, Discount
Video, Video Dimensions, Nostalgia
Merchant and others— usually sell to
retail outlets and directly to
consumers, and the programs are
often for sale only. Prices range
between $50 and $80 per cassette.

For mystery and fantasy shows
from yesterday’s tv on today’s
cassettes, that’s about all there is.
Home video, it seems, has not lived
up to many of our expectations,
especially considering the nature of
its possibilities. But then again, who
knew in ’62 that one day we would
be able to tape a newscast of a
Space Shuttle landing while we’re
vacationing and play it back when
we return? So I guess we’re still a
little ahead of the game. 10

The ‘Heroes & Heavies’"^
Quiz Revisited

compiled by Kathleen Murray /

^9

Fantasy and horror films draw much of their power from the conflict
of good versus evil. Here’s a chance to test your wits-or at least your
trivia IQ-by matching good guys and bad guys with the films they
appeared in together.

The first “Heroes & Heavies” Quiz, back in
November, was responsible for a rash of nervous break-
downs throughout the country because it forced you to

come up with the titles of the films. Therefore, at the

j, insistence of medical authorities, we’ve added an alpha-

y betical listing of the movies in question. This is still a

■P tough quiz, however, and matching even twenty of the

names means you’re something of a savant. Anyone get-
ting thirty or more correct has obviously peeked at the
answers, which appear on page 87.

1. Rosalind Russell

2. Otto Kruger

3. Martin Balsam

4. Victor Kilian

5. Ralph Bates

6. Joel McCrea

7. Gloria Talbott

8. Fredric March

9. Keir Dullea

lO. Edward DeSouza
n. Peter Cushing

12. James Ellison

13. Sigourney Weaver

14. Donald Sutherland

15. Zita Johann-

16. Nita Naldi

17. Raymond Massey

18. Edward Van Sloan

19. Laurence OHvior

20. Glenda Farrell

21. Douglass Montgomery

22. David Soul

23. John Justin

24. Eric Porter

25. Patrick Magee

26. Geoffrey Keen

27. Edward Woodward

28. Brian Donlevy

29. Bruno Ganz

30. Angela Lansbury

31. Gregory Peck

32. Colin Clive

33. Blake Edwards

34. Guy Williams

35. Ralph Richardson

A. Leslie Banks

B. Martine Beswick
0. Anthony Perkins

D. Cecil Kellaway

E. Bela Lugosi

F. James Mason

G. Boris Karloff
FI. Klaus Kinski

I. Leonard Nimoy

J. Ian Flolm

K. Angharad Rees

L. John Floward

M. Michael Landon

N. Conrad Veidt

O. Flurd Flatfield

P. Kim Stanley

Q. Charles Middleton

R. Peter Lorre

S. Frank Langella

T. Ralph Richardson

U. Patrick Allen

V. Michael Gough

W. Richard Wordsworth

Y, Christopher Lee

Z. Robert Montgomery
AA. Tom Tryon

BB. David Warner
CC. Douglas Rain
DD. Lionel Atwill
EE. John Barrymore
FF. Claude Rains
GG. Flarvey Stephens
FIFI. Albert Dekker

II. Noel Willman
JJ. Gloria Flolden

Allen

The Creeping Unknown
Doctor Cyclops
Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Doctor Jekyll and Sister Hyde
Dracula (1931)

Dracula (1979)

Dracula's Daughter

Hands of the Ripper

Horrors of the Black Museum

I Married a Monster from Outer Space

I Married a Witch

1 M/os a Teenage Werewolf

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Kiss of Evil

Mad Love

The Most Dangerous Game
The Mummy

The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Mystery of the Wax Museum
Night Creatures
Night Must Fall
Nosferatu
The Omen

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Psycho

'Salem's Lot

Seance on a Wet Afternoon
The Sirangler of the Swamp
The Thief of Bagdad
Things to Come
Time Bandits
2001: A Space Odyssey
The Undying Monster
The Wicker Man ®

17

© 1981 Avco Embassy

1983 Warner Bros.

IT'S STILL A GOOD LIFE

With The Twilight Zone contribution is based on the
aiming for a summer Twilight Zone tv episode

release, shooting on the “It’s a Good Life,” which
Steven Spielberg- John Rod Serling adapted from a
Landis coproduction should short story by Jerome
be completed by the time Bixby. When the show was
you read this, with each of first aired on November 3,
the four major sequences 1961, it starred young Billy
helmed by a different Mumy as Anthony

director: Landis, Spielberg, Fremont, the six-year-old
George Miller (director of tyrant whose supernatural
the Australian Mad Max powers terrorize a town,
and The Road Warrior), Mumy played two other
and Joe Dante (Piranha roles on The Twilight
and The Hmvling). Zone— he also starred in

Though, like the other “Long Distance Call” and
sequences, it will not bear “In Praise of Pip”— but
an individual title, Dante’s “Good Life,” he recalls.

was his favorite. 1978 tv film And Your

Mumy will play a cameo Name Is Jonah, with Sally
role in this new version, Struthers and James
which has been written by Woods. On Christmas 1981
veteran Twilight Zone he joined Sally Fields and

scenarist Richard Matheson William Hurt in a live
(see page 88). The part of broadcast of All the Way
Anthony is now being Home. The Twilight Zone

played by eleven-year-old will be his second feature
Jeremy Licht, who’s film; his first. The Next, is

starred in numerous Movies due for :felease soon,
of the Week, including Once In Dante’s sequence.
Upon a Family, The Licht will be joining

Comeback Kid, Father Kathleen Quinlan, star of

Figure (with Timothy such films as I Never

Hutton as his older Promised You a Rose

brother), Skeezer, and— as Garden and The Runner
another Anthony— in the Stumbles. She plays school-

Below; In a sequence based on tje Twilight Zone episode "It’s a Good Life," Kathleen Quinlan portrays Helen Foley, a
troubled young teacher forced to come to grips with the extraordinary— and terrifying— supernatural powers of young
Anthony Fremont (Jeremy Licht). Quinlan's best-known role to date; the lead in / Never Promised You a Rose Garden.

Dante (right) ori
location during
filming of the
"Good Life"
sequence. The
story has been
altered from the
original Rod Serling
television episode,
with Richard
Matheson’s script
focusing on one
terrorized family.

teacher Helen Foley, a
character that didn’t
appear in the original
version but who here
assumes a central
importance in the plot.
(The name is taken from
Rod Serling’s high school
English teacher, the real
Helen Foley, who still
resides in Binghamton,
New York.)

Also featured are four
Twilight Zone alumni:
William Schallert (who
appeared in the “Mr.
Bevis” episode), Patricia
Barry (“The Chaser” and
“I Dream of Genie”),
longtime series producer
Buck Houghton, and Kevin
McCarthy (best known to
horror-film fans for
Invasion of the Body
Snatchers and The
Howling), who

played the title
role in “Long Live
Walter Jameson.” (As the
film’s unit publicist, Hilary
Clark, mentioned in our
previous issue, McCarthy
will— appropriately— play a
character called “Uncle
Walt.”)

Next on the production
schedule: an adaptation of
Richard Matheson’s
Twilight Zone classic,
“Nightmare at 20,000
Feet,” to be written and
directed by George Miller.
The sequence will star John
Lithgow, the Tony Award-
winning Broadway actor
most recently seen as the
offsides Roberta Muldoon
in The World According to
Garp. Steven Spielberg’s
episode will be filmed last;
look for further details in
May-June’s Twilight Zone.

Eleven-year-old Jeremy Licht (below left) reprises the
character originally played by Billy Mumy (below right)
in "It's a Good Life.” Nidw twenty-nine and preferring
“Bill" to “Billy,” Mumy plays a cameo role in the movie
version. The actor is still seen frequently on television
and has appeared in films such as Paplllon; he's also a
songwriter, with three cuts on America’s new LP. At right
Mumy in the original tv episode, aired in 1961.

Kathleen Quinlan, executive producer Frank Marshall (who
worked with Spielberg on E.T., Poltergeist, and Raiders
of the Lost Ark), and director Joe Dante taking a break
on the Twilight Zone set. A lifelong fan of the tv series, Dante
has filled his scenes with references to Twilight Zones past.

Illustrations Courtesy Weird Toles, Ltd

twenty-five jients at a time
VwEiKU when the top pulp, A ryosy,

||||ik|| cost only ten cents, looked

J y m like anything but a fledgling

^ ^ legend. A small-format

Fantasy historian Mike Ashley pages were

reminded us that this winter with over twenty

marks a rather special unmemorable stories

anniversary and contributed

these thoughts: ^

^ atrocious covers ever to

Just imagine, for a adorn the magazine. The

moment, that before you is second issue wasn’t much
a birthday cake decked with better, and it was clear
sixty candles. Take a deep after twelve monthly issues
breath, close your eyes, and that the readers were not
make a wish. But what overly impressed either,
would you wish for— health. The magazine was not
happiness, prosperity . . . selling and had built up
or perhaps something more debts of around forty
specific? Maybe a complete thousand dollars,
run of the most famous and Any other publisher
legendary of all fantasy would have called it a day
magazines. Weird Tales. and decided that the world
Sixty years ago this was not ready for the
month— March 1, 1923, to
be precise— that legend was /^/7

born. In that month in * (Q V

Indianapolis, thirty- two- '/i

year-old publisher Jacob

Henneberger gave the r , ' ; , i.

world Weird Tales, and in ^

so doing not only created

the first all-fantasy — -JW

magazine in the English s4o n. Mkhij.n

language, but also gave to

the future a legacy that Unique Magazine. I can
would encompass such only shudder at the thought
writers as H. P. Lovecraft, of what a loss the fantasy
Robert E. Howard, Robert field would have suffered
Bloch, and Ray Bradbury, had Henneberger been such
and artists such as a man. But he had a faith

Margaret Brundage, Virgil and determination that is
Finlay, and Hannes Bok. rare, and in a totally
Henneberger was. already unbusinesslike manner, he
the successful publisher of sold his interest in his more
College Humor and the profitable magazines and
Magazine of Fun, but he refloated Weird Tales.

wanted a special magazine The original editor,
that, in his own words, Edwin Baird, whose heart
would “give the writer was never in the magazine,
free rein to express his was replaced by Farnsworth
innermost feelings in a Wright, a former music
manner befitting great critic and something of a
literature.” Just what great Shakespearean scholar, but
literature Weird Tales above all a visionary.

of Weird Tales almost until
his death in 1940, shortly
after the magazine had
been sold to a new
publisher, William, Delaney,
who also handled Short
Stories. That magazine’s
editor, Dorothy Mcllwraith,
succeeded Wright as editor
of Weird Tales, although
she was helped to an
increasingly greater degree
by art editor Lamont
Buchanan. The issues from
1940 to 1954 are less
exciting than those under
Wright, The scope of fiction
was naiTower, the stories
more formula; standards
were sacrified to cut costs.

saved Weird Tales from
death on more than one
occasion and helped create
what was declared in the
magazine’s subtitle: “The
Unique Magazine.”

That first issue, dated
March 1923 and selling for
the rather high price of

been matched in the annals
of fantasy fiction. Each
issue of the magazine was
an event, and both readers
and writers felt they
belonged to a family. As
Edmond Hamilton, one of
the magazine’s most
popular writers, recalled:

contents ranged from the
traditional tales of ghosts,
vampires, and werewolves
to stories of dark fantasy
and sorcery, from science
fiction at the one extreme
to just plain weird at the
other.

Wright remained editor

The policy of the new
publisher thus robbed the
magazine of its uniqueness
and at length sapped its
vitality to the point that it
fell an easy victim to the
blight that decimated the
pulp magazine field, in the
mid-fifties, including the

-sweet jml f.ir, from ciiiT and scar.
Tile iiorns of tlfUmJ faintly b!ow-ing.

— Tennyson.

For q staider era, M^e/rd Fo/es

covers were surprisingly
risque. Throughout the ’30s they featured Imperiled nudes
by one-time tashion Illustrator Margaret Brundage, such as
the cover at left for Stsabury Quinn’s “The Hand of Glory."
Above, interior work by Virgil Finlay for Tennyson’s "The
Horns of Elfland."

rise m paper costs. Weird Less well remembered
Tales saw its last proper today, but in the thirties
issue in September, 1954. apparently the most
There have been two popular writer in Weird

revivals since, one as a, pulp Tales, was Seabury Quinn,
and one as a paperback who wrote an interminable
series, but they lacked that series about New Jersey-
special something that was based occult investigator
the true Weird Tales. Jules de Grandin. Quinn

It was in Weird Tales appeared in Weird Tales
that H. P. Lovecraft fir st more times than any other
achieved reco^ition and author— 158 stories and
where his stories of thf! articles— thus beating into

Cthulhu Mythos, as it came second place that larger-
to be called, first took than-life perpetual motion

shape— stories like “The machine and man of letters,
Call of Cthulhu” (Feb. 28) August Derleth, who had
and “The Whisperer in also made his first sale to
Darkness” (Aug. ’31). the Unique Magazine with

Robert E. Howard sold his “Bat’s Belfry,” published in
first story, “Spear and May 1926.

Fang” (July ’25) to Weird Farnsworth Wright was
Tales, and over the next ten known to encourage young
years he created such writers, and the list of

memorable characters as those who owe their first
Solomon Kane, King Kull, professional sale to Wright
Bran Mak Morn, and above is impressive. To Howard
all, the mighty Conan. and Derleth we must add

Conan has just passed his Edmond Hamilton, Manly
half-century since “The Wade Wellman, Frank
Phoenix on the Sword” Belknap Long, Robert
appeared in the December Bloch, Henry Kuttner, C.L.
1932 issue. Moore. H. Warner Munn.

Donald Wandrei, and
Anthony Boucher. Two
names that may be a
surprise addition to that list
are Robert Spencer Carr,
who went on to fame and
fortune in his controversial
bestseller Rampant Age,
and playwright Tennessee
Williams (then just sixteen-
year-old 'Thomas Lanier
Williams), both of whom
debuted in Weird Tales.

The list under Dorothy
Mcllwraith is less
renowned, though she did
buy the first or early fiction
from Ray Bradbury,

Michael Avallone, Joseph
Payne Brennan, and
Richard Matheson.

Weird Tales also
published some of the best
work by writers who had
debuted elsewhere: the
stylishly ornate fiction of
Clark Ashton Smith, the
refreshingly quaint oriental
stories of Frank Owen, and
the realistically effective
tales of voodoo by Henry S.
Whitehead.

Not only did Weird Tales
attract its own stable of
writers with such odd ,
names as Nietzin Dyalhis,
Arlton Eadie, and Greye La
Spina, but it also published
stories by such noted
authors as Abraham
Merritt, Edward Lucas
White (whose classic
“Lukundoo” first appeared
here), Vincent Starrett,
Algernon Blackwood, and
Frank Gruber. The beauty
of Weird Tales was that
Farnsworth Wright was
always on the lookout for
the truly weird and original
story, regardless of the
author, and he often bought
what may have proved to
be an individual’s only sale.
Thus Weird Tales is full of
writers totally unknown
today, but whose one brief
flight of fancy might have
captured the imagination of
both editor and readers to
the extent that their fiction
has become immortalized.

Wright also had an
inordinate fondness for
poetry, which was seldom if
ever present in other pulps,
but which added a literary

dimension to Weird Tales.
H. P. Lovecraft, Frank
Belknap Long, Mary
Elizabeth Counselman, and
Pulitzer Prizewinner Leah
Bodine Drake all
contributed verse, and it
gave that great illustrator
Virgil Finlay a golden
opportunity to visualize
scenes from classic poetry
such as Coleridge’s “Rime
of the Ancient Mariner,”
Poe’s “The Raven,” and
Tennyson’s “The Horns of
Elfland.”

Artwork .played an
important part in the
magazine’s history, and
there is no doubt that in the
thirties the stunning nude
covers by Margaret
Brundage and the powerful
action covers by J. Allen St.
John helped sales. While
the forties’ covers were less
exceptional, the interior
featured fine work by
Finlay, Hannes Bok,

Vincent Napoli, Joseph
Eberle, and the unique Lee
Brown Coye.

When Weird Tales folded
after 279 issues, it was
literally the end of an era.
There had been no other
magazine like it during its
lifetime, and certainly
nothing like it since. I like
to think that if any
magazine has come close to
inheriting the mantle of the
legendary pulp, it is the
magazine that you hold in
your hands now. Although
its coverage of films and
television would have been
alien to Weird Tales, its
willingness to experiment,
its determination to
encourage new writers, its
ability to surprise and defy
categorization, all echo the
same bold spirit that made
Weird Tales immortal.

So before you blow out all
those candles and make
that wish, by all means
remember the past and
yearn for that complete set
of Weird Tales, but spare a
thought for the living as
this magazine celebrates its
second anniversary. Let’s
wish Twilight Zone a long
and happy life, and may it,
too, one day be a legend.

AMERICA ENTERS THE TWILIGHT ZONE

The title above v^s used by Marc Scott Zicree for an article about
the Twilight Zone tv series’ first season, back in 1959. But it might
also describe America in the eighties— judging, at least, from some of
the clippings sent in by our ever- vigilant readers. o

aganonaics enters
P ‘twilight lone Q

V-JLSS.

this issue} doesn'i mean nn !
last week's vt« was the eod of the freeas

fnovemem's effixts m the House,

TwilightZone

Balanced-budget politics

fl^Q sratic Senawr Roben Byrd of
TTiilg Vifenia nitwrify leader.

ciang the iwo-

leodmeot that
* L J% federal budget.

'ower of Texas
O'toimsssure
m M * ome into not

• >er«nt of us ^

^ iRepiiM-

1 —ROLLING STONE. SUBMITTED BY JOHN HOLBROOK, DREXEL HILL, PA

2 —ST. LOUIS GLOBE-DEMOCRAT. SUBMITTED BY BRYAN A. HOLLERBACH, STE. GENEVIEVE,

3 —TIME. SUBMinED BY MARY DUNAGAN, HOUSTON. TX

4 — CLEARWATER (FLA.) SUN. SUBMITTED BY BARRY R. HUNTER, ROME, GA

5 —GLOBE. SUBMinED BY PATRICIA LEE HOLT, CHARLOTTE, NC

6 —CHICAGO SUN-TIMES. SUBMITTED BY DEL CLOSE, CHICAGO, IL

7 —PEOPLE. SUBMinED BY JEFF MclNTOSH, WATERTOWN, NY

B —WASHINGTCSn POST. SUBMITTED BY ELIAS SAVADA, BETHESDA, MD

This bizoTTe photo showed up in out offices iosf faii,
beoTing oniy the most cryptic of messages— "Wishing you ail a
happy Halloween"— from one "B. Schwarfz " of Afhens, Georgia,
The objecfs identity remains a mystery. Is it an ancient
Sumerian artifact unearthed near Khor-al-Amaya? The skull of
fhe Minotaur? Aleister Crowley's coffee'mug? E.T.'s ski mask?
The head of Twilight Zone's circulafion deparfmenf? We don’t
know, and B. Schwartz isn't telling.

^Club ClfusoE

HO*J^o I^OUV

g^OP OR

PHIL

QUOTE “Tlie notion of human perfect -
ability through increasing cleverness barely
survived the First World War, when the
cleverness began to seem chronically
misapplied, and perished altogether in the
Second. In 1922 H. G, Wells could still just
ask, at the end of his Short History of the
World: ‘Can we doubt that presently our
race ... will achieve unity and peace, that
it will live ... in a world made more
splendid and lovely than any palace or
garden that we; know, going on from
strength to strength in an ever-widening
circle of advenmre and achievement?’ In the
1946 edition he answered his own question

by leaving it out.”— John Whale, The Times (London)

8 LEWN'

;ari>s..iv

)NE FRON
E BOAT T
rA6y iSL#
R AAAYBE
k IN THE.
►^ILIfoHT
ZONE

he says. “There’s a lot to be
angry about. The whole
idea of typecasting is the
product of bad journalism
and film producers with a
gram of coke up their noses
who think they know
everything. After The
Onion Field I was offered
plenty of psycho parts.

Once I was asked to play
Lee Harvery Oswald, but I
turned it down.”

Woods rejected that par^
because he felt it was an
example of Hollywood at its
most exploitative. He is
much happier working on

subscribers. “It’s an
amazingly complex and
bizarre film,” says Woods.
“And it’s really about
something much more
macabre than watching
people getting killed on tv.”

According to Woods, the
plot of Videodrome is based
on actual scientific data
concerning the effects of
electromagnetic waves on
humans. “In the film we
suggest that these waves
could in fact induce
hallucinations that would
become reality.” In fact,
Woods’s huckster discovers

“I was asked to play Lee Harvey Oswald.”

EROGENOUS

ZONE

Among the most notable visitors to our shores in
recent months has been Playboy’s comely comic-strip
heroine Little Annie Fanny, who, in December’s
installment, dove off an overheated cruise ship wearing
little more than a Swimorama t-shirt and found herself
washed up on a desert island that bore an unsettling
resemblance to you-know-where.

James Wcx)d stars with Deborah Harry in Videodrome, in
which an underground cabie tv station treats its viewers to
snuff films. Rick Baker (King Kong, An American Werewoif in
London) provides fhe special makeup effects.

that the underground films
are actually being broadcast
by a right-wing group that
is using subliminal waves
to turn the subscribers
into self-destructive
automatons.

“It’s a neat, paranoid
science-fiction thriller,”
says Woods, “that gets
weirder every time I try
to explain what it’s about.

It has a Kafkaesque,
dreamlike quality.”

How did Woods like
working with David
Cronenberg, the creator of
Scanners, Rabid, and The
Broodl “He’s a sick,
demented, crazy fuck that I
happen to love very much.
I’ve always wanted to do
this kind of film, so I
thought, ‘Why not make it
with a master?’ ” IS

projects like Holocaust and
Split Image, projects that
make serious political or
social statements. “As silly
as Holocaust was on one
level,” says Woods of the
Emmy Award-winning tv
mini-series, “it did change
the statute of limitations
on Nazi war crimes in
Germany. Split Image
explored the phenomenon
of cults in America, which
is critical to the future of
this country.”

In David Cronenberg’s
Videodrome, Woods
literally moves into the
future in the role of Max
Renn, a cable television
huckster who stumbles
upon an underground cable
system that broadcasts sex
and “snuff” films into
the homes of its elite

JAMES

WOODS:

NOBODY'S

ROLE MODEL

Directed by Canada's David
Cronenberg, probabiy the
most inteiiigent exponent of
the horror film at work today,
the new Universal film
Videodrome offers an
unsettling look at the possible
effects of television— and
another look at an actor
who's specialized in some
highly unusual roles. James
Verniere paid him a visit:

When you think of film’s
greatest psychos, the
names Dwight Frye,
Richard Widmark, Peter

Lorre, and, of course,
Anthony Perkins come
immediately to mind. Try to
add the name of actor
James Woods to that list
and the thirty-four-year-old
New Yorker is liable to go
for your throat. He doesn’t
like to be typecast. As far
as this M.I.T.-educated,

Obie Award-winning actor
is concerned, his stunning
performances as the
sociopathic cop-killer in The
Onion Field and as the
schizoid Vietnam vet in
Eyewitness were just jobs
well done. They had
nothing to do with the real
James Woods.

Still, one can’t keep from
feeling a bit uneasy in
Woods’s presence. He’s
always so goddamned
angry. “Sure I’m angry,”

23 ■■

24

THE CELEBRATED AUTHOR OF THE OUTSIDER
HAS SOME OUTSIDER'S OPINIONS OF HIS OWN-
AS HIS VIEWS ON GHOSTS AND POLTERGEISTS MAKE CLEAR.

Photos by Lisa Tuttle

‘You suddenly
realize, with horror,
that it all fits . . . ’

Interviewer Lisa Ttittle reports:

Since bursting onto the literary
scene in 1956 with his first book, The
Outsider-o study of such alienated
geniuses as Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky,
Blake, Hesse, Kafka, and Van Gogh—
English author Colin Wilson has written
some fifty books and edited or con-
tributed to many mare. The Occult (1971)
and Mysteries (1978) are classics in their
field, essential reading for anyone in-
terested in the paranormal. His mast re-
cent book. Poltergeist! A Study in Destruc-
tive Haunting (published in the U.S. by
Putnam), develops a new theory for
this supernatural phenomenon, based
largely on what Wilson calls 'the classic
British case" of poltergeist haunting,
which took place in the Yorkshire town
of Pontefract some twenty-five years
ago.

In The Strength to Dream (1961),
Wilson took a critical look at fantastic
literature, inspired by his response to
the works of H. P. Lovecraft. And among
his fourteen novels are the Lovecraftian
horror of The Mind Parasites, science fic-
tion such as The Philosopher's Stone and

TZ: To begin with your latest book,
Poltergeist!— \ was surprised to find
that your theory seems to be a
reversion to the old idea that they are
genuinely spirits, “noisy ghosts,” when
most recent investigators accept that
the poltergeist phenomenon is caused
by something human, some powers of
the unconscious mind.

Wilson: In all of mj previous books,
right up to Frankemtein’s Castle, I’d
continued to hold this view of polter-
geists as being products of the
unconscious mind of disturbed teen-
agers, and of course my discovery of
the right and left brain business made
me even more certain of this. The fact
that we’ve got two different people in
the two halves of our brain struck me
as being very significant.

The problem, of course, was where
does the energy come from? Even if
there is another person in your brain,
how does he succeed in hurling objects
across rooms? It struck me that the
answer to this could lie in the energy
that dowsers seem to have flowing
through them— energy that sometimes
can absolutely convulse them. So it

The Space Vampires, as well as several
suspense and detective novels. His first
novel Ritual in the Dark (I960), probed
the motivations of a Ripper-like sex-
murderer so convincingly that twenty
years later, the police turned up to
interview him, just to make sure that the
career of aufhor Colin Wilson wasn't a
cover for the activities of fhe Yorkshire
Ripper.

Wilson has also written books about
crime (Order of Assassins), psychology
(Origins of the Sexual Impulse), creative
writing (The Craft of the Novel),
philosophy (An Introductbn to the New
Existentialism), and biographies ot
among others, Wilhelm Reich. George
Bernard Shaw, Uri Geller, and Rasputin.

But these are not the random sub-
jects imposed on a writer for hire, nor
are fhey as diverse as they seem. As
Wilson himself has said, "All my books
are abouf fhe same fhing." Common
threads weave them all together into
one ongoing lifework with recurring
obsessions and a coherent philosophy.
Hiding behind even such unpromising
titles as A Book of Booze or Sex and the
Intelligent Teenager is the same quest,
the same determined attempt to find
out what is wrong with human beings

seemed a possibility to me that this is
what the poltergeist is— until, of
course, as I describe in the book, I went
up to Pontefract to have a look at a
case there and interviewed the family’s
teenaged daughter. On the way I
stopped to talk to Guy Playfair [author
of This House Is Haunted], who told me
his theory of poltergeists. Guy said that
the poltergeist is basically a football
of energy used by spirits, and that
when the football explodes it turns
into water; and the first thing I
learned in Pontefract was that the
initial manifestations were pools of
water, exactly the same kind that Guy
had described to me. So I began to
think that maybe Guy was right.

Then I did such an enormous
amount of research for the book, and I
began to notice similarities. It’s like a
jigsaw puzzle, and the pieces begin to '
fit together. In the case of polter-
geists, the more I looked into it, the
more it began to fall into this regular
pattern and the more I saw that the
regular pattern fit Guy Playfair’s
theory and didn’t fit mine. Partly
what converted me was 'when Diane, \

and what, in our finest moments, we
are truly capable of-questions he's ex-
amined in all his writing, from The
Outsider down to his recent essay on
the meaning of the bicameral mind,
Frankenstein's Castle (Ashgrove Press,
1980).

He is currently working on two
books: the massive World History of
Crime and a shatter study he is writing
out of sheer enfhusiasm. Access to Inner
Worlds, which describes the experiences
of a man Wilson believes has esfab-
lished direcf contact with that part of
fhe mind usually called the uncon-
scious. The man, an American named
Brad, has conducted experiments in
which he lets his unconscious mind
direct his body, one result being a series
of automatic paintings. Wilson initially
urged Brad to write a boak about him-
self, buf since fhe man felt unqualified
fo da so, Wilson is wrifing if for him.

Born in 1931 in Leicesfer, Engiand,
Colin Wilson now lives on fhe soufh-
western coasf of England, In a book-
and-record-filled house in Cornwail wifh
his wife Joy and fheir two youngest
chiidren, where he writes, reads, listens •
to mSsic, drinks good wine, and lets his
mind roam In this and other worlds.

the daughter in Pontefract, told me
about being dragged up the stairs by
this thing. In this case, I could see no
way in which Diane’s own unconscious
mind would drag her up the stairs.
And as I began to see all the evidence
laid out side by side, I began to see
that in fact the spirit view fits it, and
the spontaneous psychokinesis view
doesn’t. You could say that I argued
myself out of the spontaneous psycho-
kinesis theory.

TZ: But where does this energy come
from? And what are these spirits? Do
you believe in traditional ghosts, or in
some sort of earth spirits, or what?
Wilson: Well, the next major thing
that hit me— it so happened that I’d
written a book on witchcraft just
before I wrote the book on polter-
geists. Now, I already knew a lot
about witchcraft, and had written a lot
about it in the past, and it’s true that
witches do appear to have a lot of odd
powers, psychic powers of various
sorts; in other words, the mind itself
has these powers. For example, white
witches have healing powers, and I
think that, on the whole, spirits need

25

1i

r

Colin Wilson

not be held responsible for these. But
from The Occult onwards, I’d always
dismissed the idea of witches having
familiars or consorting with spirits as
nonsense. Even in cases where
witches confessed to conjuring up
spirits, I just said, “Poor devils, vic-
tims of the witchcraft craze.” And yet,
even so, in The Occult I’d quoted an
old friend of mine, Negley Parson, on
African witchcraft, talking about
actually seeing African witch doctors
cause rain, and I cited one or two
other similar instances; and it later
struck me as absurd that I should
believe Negley when he talked about
his African witches, and yet dismiss
the whole business of the witches who
conjured up a storm and tried to
wreck King James of Scotland. So
when I wrote Strange Powers I did
acknowledge, in the first chapter, that
* I was probably wrong about the North
Berwick witches, and that in all
probability it was genuine witchcraft,
and that they genuinely caused the
storm that nearly sank the king’s ship.

You see, what tends to happen is
that you set out with what Huxley
called a “minimum working hypothe-
sis” for a thing of this sort, and you
stick to it as a scientist for as long as
you can. But in writing a full-length
book, first about witchcraft and then
about poltergeists, a new pattern had
begun to emerge, and that pattern
was simply; if poltergeists are not
spontaneous psychokinesis, but are
spirits who are somehow able to use
the energy exuded by human beings
under stress, then does it not follow
that these spirits play an active part in
other things?

The next clue was Guy Playfair
talking to me about black magic in
Brazil— the fact that the Brazilian
witch doctors use poltergeists in their
black magic. And then Guy casually
mentioned the kahunas, the witch
doctors in Hawaii, and it all fell into
the same pattern. There are refer-
ences to the same sort of thing in
other countries and in other ages. And
you suddenly realize with horror that
it all fits, all that stuff about witch-
craft, which you used to dismiss as
old-fashioned superstition; it all fits to-
gether like one big jigsaw puzzle. And
you see that, in fact, what magicians
and witches have been saying down
the ages is probably exactly and
precisely true.

Now, I’m rather sorry. I’d much
rather it fit into the psychokinesis

26

pattern. I hate this business of
suddenly saying, “Okay, I believe in
the possibility of witchcraft and black
magic through the use of spirits.” But
honesty compels me to admit that that
looks the likeliest solution.

TZ: Have you had any response to the
book yet?

Wilson: I always get a lot of corres-
pondence about all kinds of subjects,
and I’ve had the usual batch on
Poltergeist! The Society for Psychical
Research are very interested. Their
paper, the Psychic News, ran a front-
page story— you know, “Wilson is
converted to the view that spirits
really exist!”

TZ: I thought you made a good case
for it in the book, but it’s disappoint-
ing, in a way, to have it be spirits
rather than psychokinesis . . .

Wilson: Can’t be helped. It does seem
to me to be basically the truth. I don’t
particularly like being dragged into
the camp of the spiritualists, because
you’re then dragged in with all kinds
of woolly-minded idiots, and that
doesn’t suit me at all. I don’t like
finding myself in this company, any
more than I’d like finding myself in
the company of Communists just
because I began to oppose the
Thatcher government!

TZ: But what do you think these
spirits are?

Wilson: As far as I can see, the
kahunas are right in their belief that
there are more or less two kinds of
spirits. One kind of spirit is simply the
spirit of a dead person. The other kind
of spirit is not the spirit of a dead
person. They are elementals, or
whatever you want to call them. In
other words, they are creatures— like
octopuses, if you like— but they don’t
exist in our dimension, quite. So that
again seems to fit. I mean, it fits an
enormous amount of what I’ve said in
other books. Even in Mysteries there’s
a chapter called “Powers of Evil?” in

which I talk about the possibility that
there are genuinely powers of e^ and
that spirits exist externally to us, and
I conclude that there probably are. So
you can see that all the time, in a way,
in sticking to my scientific approach,
insisting on my scientific conclusions.
I’ve been dragged, gradually, inch by
inch, against my will, to another point
of view.

The reason I regret that I’ve been
dragged around to this view of spirits
as reality is that, in a sense, this is
quite irrelevant to my central work
and what you might call my central
quest. You see, all of my work, from
The Outsider onwards, has been about
a basic question: What on earth is
wrong with human beings? There
obviously is, in a sense, something
basically wrong with us, and yet not,
in a funny way, something seriously
wrong. It’s like having a clock whose
hands are loose; the result is that it
will never show you the right time, or
you can never be sure that it is
showing you the right time, and yet in
a certain sense it’s a perfectly good
clock and all you have to do to make it
work is tighten up the hands. And I
feel that there’s something wrong
with human beings in this same, very
slight way.

We experience, frequently, these
curious flashes in which we feel

“everything is okay, all is well.” You
experience it particularly after stress
or tiredness; quite suddenly it’s as if
you can relax and expand— as if you
could open your heart with pure
happiness. You remember, at the end
of Steppenwolf, how Steppenwolf says
that our problem is to take the whole
world into our hearts? We tend to be
too much afraid. We’re like this
[clenching his fist]— closed up, not
letting things ill, and we’ve got to
open up. This is basically the problem:
our filtering mechanism is ’too good.
And yet whenever the moments of

‘‘You suddenly realize, with horror,
that it all fits, all that stuff about
witchcraft, which you used to
dismiss as oldfashioned
superstition; it all fits together like
one big jigsaw puzzle.

ecstatic happiness happen, we get the
impression that it’s so easy. If you’re
threatened with real danger, or even
real inconvenience, you find yourself
thinking how easy it would be to be
perfectly happy if only the danger
would go away. But in fact what
really happens is that you get dragged
back into the triyial. It’s like trying to
walk through a swamip— in no time at
all, you’re up to your waist. Now the
interesting thing is, what are you up
to your waist in? And, again, the
answer appeared \'ery clearly in
Poltergeist!

It so happened that, at the time I
was writing Poltergeist', I was forced
to write three books in about four
months. At the same time, my doctor
told me my blood pressure was too
high. So I worked and worked and
worked, and as I plodded on and on
I found that the worst of it all
was these emotional storms— like
something inside me, a small boy
howling, “No, no, let me alone!” At
the end of these four months I’d been
forced to withstand these kinds of
attacks again and ag;iin, the kind of
panic-depression attacks I describe at
the beginning of Mysteries. Although I
had cured myself of them in 1973, I
hadn’t, so to speak, solved them. Now

that I was under the same kind of
stress, I was forced to try to solve
them. And it struck me that what was
causing this panic was a part of me
which I call “the emotional body.” As
well as possessing an ordinary physical
body, we also possess an emotional
body which is quite separate from
“us.” It would be a mistake to identify
the emotional body with “you,”
because it’s no more “you” than your
physical body is. The more I thought
about this, the more I saw that this is
our trouble: we spend our lives being
dragged down by this stupid,
hysterical emotional body.

TZ: So you’re saying we have three
selves, in a way? The body, the
emotions, and the “real you”
somehow buried inside?

Wilson: That’s right. I discovered that
the kahunas believe that we have
three separate souls which they call
the lower self, the middle self, and the
higher self, and that one of these
dwells in the solar plexus— that’s the
lower self, which Freud called the
unconscious. And they say that this
“weeps tears” and is perpetually self-
pitying. Obviously it’s what I call the
emotional body. The middle self, which
is the “you,” lives in the left brain,
and the higher self is jn the right

brain ^ And the higher self, apparently, *
knows the future and can control it.
Now unfortunately you, the middle
self, have no way to contact the higher
self except through the lower self; the
telephone line goes down through your
solar plexus, and there’s normally
such a crackling on the line due to its
emotional problems that you don’t
communicate very well.

TZ: What got you interested in the
occult to begin with?

Wilson: I’d always been mildly
interested in spiritualism since my
teens, but the more I became inter-
ested in science, the more I became
dubious about spiritualism. But I’ve
always been interested in oddities, and
had piles of books lying around the
house, books on all sorts of subjects
merely because I’m an avid reader. So
when they asked me if I’d like to write
a book about the occult, I said okay
simply because it was an interesting
research job. I settled down to it just
as a research job, and got more and
more absorbed in it. I began by
thinking, “Well, it’s obviously rubbish
and nonsense. There’s obviously not
very much to be written about it.” For
example, magic just couldn’t exist, it
just doesn’t work . . . But the more I
went into the thing, the more I began

Wilson at his Cornwall home. "I’m completely what you’d call ’ESP thick.’ I've never seen a ghost, never expect to,
because I’m not that sort of person."

Colin Wilson

to see that nearly all these things have
a very solid basis— you know, like
magic does exist, and it does work.
TZ: Have you ever seen a ghost?

Wilson: Nope.

TZ: Or seen what you’d consider
magic working, or—

Wilson: I’m completely what you’d
call “ESP thick.” Never had any
experience of it. The only experience
of poltergeists I’ve had are described
in the book itself: the one in the
Croydon pub where the lavatory went
freezing cold, and the one in this
house when my sister was here, the
banging that occurred in the night.
They’re my only experiences. I’ve
never seen a ghost, never expect to,
because I’m not that sort of person.
TZ: So you think it requires a special
talent to see a ghost?

Wilson: Oh, yes. Not only is it a
special talent, but two people could be
sitting together in the same room and
one would see a ghost and the other
not.

TZ: Has that ever happened to you?
Wilson: No. Never. Because although
I’ve got to know various psychics and
mediums over the years, as one who’s
been involved in it. I’ve never, for
example, attended a seance in my life.
TZ: ^^y? Don’t you want to?

Wilson: It’s not that. I live down here
in Cornwall and . . . Don’t forget,
you’re asking me questions on a
subject which is about one-sixteenth of
my total interest. So for me it is a
very small subject, and not a terribly
interesting one.

TZ: But you’ve written a fair number
of books on the subject.

Wilson: Simply because, when I got
interested in the occult, I realized that
it was a new and interesting angle on
my old interest, the expansion of
consciousness— that obviously we are
capable of far more than we thought
we were. And so I’ve continued to be
interested in it over the years.

TZ: You told me earlier that you don’t
read much science fiction these days,
but in your. essay “Science Fiction as
Existentialism” [1978, Bran’s Head
Press, U.K.] you said you thought
28

science fiction was “perhaps the most
important form of literary creation
that man had ever discovered.” Do
you still feel that? At least in theory?
Wilson: Oh, yes. I was very influenced
by science fiction in my teens. I
suppose science fiction was the first
form of fiction that excited me great-
ly. But I’ve tended to lose interest in
science fiction because most science
fiction writers are simply telling
stories, or inventing fantasy, whereas
now I’m interested in science fiction
as a vehicle for ideas. I shall probably
do another science fiction novel
myself, sooner or later; I tend to do a
science fiction novel when an idea that
has been bubbling around in my head
suddenly takes a science fiction form.
A. E. van Vogt and I once planned to
write a huge science fiction novel
—something about the size of Lord of
the Rings— hut nothing ever came of
it.

TZ: You call some of your novels
science fiction, but they seem to be a
combination of science fiction and
horror. Do you have any interest in
horror fiction?

Wilson: Not really. I wrote my first
so-called science fiction novel. The
Mind Parasites, because August
Derleth pulled my leg and said, “If

you think H. P. Lovecraft is so bad,
why don’t you try and do better?” So
it began as a Lovecraftian novel, but it
came out much closer to the science
fiction end of Lovecraft. Because, you
know, Lovecraft began as a writer of
pure horror and ended as a writer of
pure science fiction.

TZ: Do you read much modern fiction
of any kind?

Wilson: Not really, no. It doesn’t
interest me because, again, you see,
most of my contemporaries have no
ideas.

TZ: Have you ever written any
screenplays?

Wilson: Y^es, I’ve written two or three
scripts for Dino De Laurentiis. I did
the final version of Flash Gordon.

TZ: I didn’t know that! How did you
like it?

Wilson: Not much. In that case, I

rewrote Lorenzo Semple Jr.’s script,
and even then my name didn’t appear
on the film, which I didn’t mind at all.
The last script I did for Dino, he said,
“Do you want a credit?” and I said I
will happily repay you all the money
you’ve paid me if you don’t give me a
credit!

TZ: How about your own books being
made into films?

Wilson: Michael Winner was going to
do The Space Vampires, but unfor-
tunately it’s now been sold to some
other small Hollywood company. Dino
optioned it for about two years, and
then he dropped his option, and then
he rang me up one day offering me a
large sum of money, $150,000, for it;
and I said, “You’ll have to wait until
Monday morning while I check with
my agent.” And on Monday morning
my agent said that we’d just sold an
option on it for $3,000. 1 said, “Have
we signed anything?” and he said,
“No, not yet, but, you know, it’s a
gentleman’s agreement, and if we
drop it our name would be mud.” This
little outfit sent around a check for
$3,000 by private messenger by
midday, and by four o’clock they were
offering it to Dino for $200,000. So
that’s how far they were gentlemen.
TZ: And that’s where it is now?
Wilson: Yes, it’s with some people
called Cannon Films. They keep taking
out pages in the Hollywood Reporter
to advertise it, and they say they’re
going to get Klaus Kinski to play the
lead in it. He’s the one from
Nosferatu. When I wrote to them and
‘ said I heard they were having script
trouble and offered to do a script for
free, they didn’t even bother to reply.
Absolute dead loss.

TZ: Would you be interested in writ-
ing a script of your own?

Wilson: Oh, yeah. At the moment a
friend of mine is interested in The
Mind Parasites. If anything went
ahead on that, I’d be delighted to
work on the script, to make sure that
when it reached the screen it was
something I liked, even if I wasn’t
paid for it. The money isn’t that im-
portant. That book I’m doing now.
Access to Inner Worlds, I’m not doing
for money; it will probably make no
money, or very little, and I’m going to
give half of anything I make on it to
Brad, since he’s what the book is
about. It probably won’t get published
in America, but it was something I
wanted to write. That’s what’s
important. 10

“August Derleth pulled my leg and
said, ‘If you think Lovecraft is
so bad, why don Y you try
and do better?' "

% '

A Colin Wilson Sampler

THROUGH NEARLY THREE DECADES OF WRITING, WILSON HAS EXPLORED
THE FRONTIERS OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE AND THE FRINGES
OF HUMAN BEHAVIOR, SEARCHING FOR THE
AWESOME POWERS LOCKED WITHIN OUR SKULLS.

On poltergeists’ restraint:

The poltergeist, like the duck-
billed platypus, really exists, and
some of its habits have now been pos-
itively established.

One interesting question still
clamors for an answer. Why does the
malice of the poltergeist seem to be
so distinctly limited? They could quite
easily kill; yet there is no recorded
case in which they have done so.
Heavy wardrobes miss people by a
fraction of an inch, fires break ^(ut in
locked cupboards and drawers a few
minutes before they are “accidental-
ly” discovered. Is there some psychic
“law” that prevents poltergeists from
being more destructive? Or does the
answer lie— as the kahunas declare
—in the nature of the poltergeist
itself? They assert that a poltergeist
is a “low spirit” that has somehow
become separated from its proper
middle and high spirit. Unlike the
middle spirit, it possesses memory;
but it has only the most rudimentary
powers of reason. It may be mis-
chievous, but it is not evil. Only the
middle spirit is capable of evil— of
directed, murderous malice. So, ac-
cording to the kahunas, the polter-
geist is only capable of such malice
when it is directed by a human
magician.

As usual, the conclusion seems to
be that, where evil is concerned,
human beings have a monopoly.

—Poltergeist A Study in

Destructive Hunting (1981)

On the poltergeist powers
within us:

If you could lift off the top of the
skull and look at the brain, you would
see something resembling a walnut,
with two wrinkled halves. Joining the
halves is a bridge of nerve fibres called
the corpus callosum. In the 1930s,
scientists wondered whether they
could prevent epilepsy by severing
this bridge— to prevent the “electrical
storm” from spreading from one half
of the brain to the other. In fact, it

seemed to work. And, oddly enough,
the severing of the “bridge” seemed
to make no real difference to the
patient.

In the 1950s Roger Sperry of the
University of Chicago (and later Cal.
Tech.) began studying these “split-
brain” patients, and made the inter-
esting discovery that they had, in ef-
fect, turned into two people. For ex-
ample, one split-brain patient tried to
button up his flies with one hand,
while the other hand tried to undo
them. Another tried to embrace his
wife with one arm, while his other :
hand pushed her violently away. In
fact, it looked rather as if his con-
scious love for his wife was being
opposed by an unconscious dislike.
The split-brain experiment had given
his unconscious mind the power to
control one of his arms. . . .

Sperry made his most interesting
discovery about the eyes of split-brain
patients. If the patient was shown an
apple with his left eye and an orange
with his right, and asked what he had
just seen, he would reply “Orange.”
Asked to write with his left hand
what he had just seen, he would write
“Apple.” Asked what he had just
written, he would reply “Orange.”

A patient who was shown a
“dirty” picture with the left eye ;
blushed; asked why she was blushing
she replied, “I don’t know.”

It seems, then, that we have two ’
different people living in the two i
halves of the brain, and that the per- |
son you call “you” lives in the left. A i
few centimeters away there is i
another person who is virtually a :
stranger— yet who also believes he is
the rightful occupant of the head. ,

Now, at least, we can begin to see |
a possible reason why the “medium” |
in poltergeist cases is quite unaware j
that he or she is causing the effects, j
We have only to assume that the ef- |
fects are caused by the person living j
in the right half of the brain, and we ;
can see that the “you” in the left |
would be unconscious of what was
happening. j

But this would still leave the
question; how does the right brain do
it? In fact, is there any evidence
whatsoever that the right brain pos-
sesses paranormal powers?

And the answer to this is a quali-
fied yes. We can begin with one of
the simplest and best-authenticated
of all “paranormal powers,” water
divining. . . . Dowsers can dowse for
almost anything, from oil and miner-
als to a coin hidden under the carpet.
It seems that they merely have to
decide what they’re looking for, and
the unconscious mind— or the “other
self”— does the rest.

I have described elsewhere [in
Mysteries, 1978] how I discovered, to
my own astonishment, that I could
dowse. I was visiting a circle of
standing stones called the Merry
Maidens, in Cornwall— a circle that
probably dates back to the same
period as Stonehenge. When I held
the rod— made of two strips of plastic
tied at the end— so as to give it a cer-
tain tension, it responded powerfully
when I aproached the stones. It
would twist upwards as I came close
to the stone, and then dip again as I
stepped back or walked past it. What
surprised me was that I felt nothing
—no tingling in the hands, no sense
of expectancy. It seemed to happen
as automatically as the response of a
voltmeter in an electric circuit. Since
then I have shown dozens of people
how to dowse. It is my own experi-
ence that nine out of ten people can
dowse, and that all young children
can do it. Some adults have to “tune
in”— to learn to allow the mind and
muscles to relax— but this can usually
be done in a few minutes.

Scientific tests have shown that
what happens in dowsing is that the
muscles convulse— or tighten— of their
own accord. Ahd if the dowser holds
a pendulum— made of a wooden bob
on a short length of string— then the
pendulum goes into a circular swing
over standing stones or underground
water— once again, through some un-
conscious action of the muscles ....

iS-

30

'f

'S

g The right brain knows there is water
down there, -or some peculiar mag-
netic force in the standing stones; it
i;- communicates this knowledge by
’ ' causing the muscles to tense, which

■ makes the rod jerk upwards. . . .

t All this, then, seems to offer a
i basis for an explanation of the
poltergeist.

—Poltergeist!

On our upright ancestors:

Some eleven million years ago, an
ape called Ramapithecus seems to
have developed the capacity to walk
upright. He began to prefer the
ground to the trees. And during the
next nine million years, the tendency
to walk upright beciime firmly estab-
lished, and Ramapithecus turned into
Australopithecus, our first “human”

: ancestor. What difference did the
, upright posture make? First of all, it
freed his hands, so that he could de-
fend himself with a stone or a tree
^ branch. Secondly, it enlarged his
: horizon.

As far as I know, no anthropolo-
gist has regarded this as significant—
perhaps because there are many
taller creatures than man. But the
; elephant and the giraffe have eyes in
: the side of their heads, so that their
: horizon is circular. The ape sees

■ straight ahead; his vision is narrower
but more concentrated. Could this be
why the apes have evolved more than
any other animal? Narrow vision
makes for boredom; it also makes for
increased mental activity, for curiosi-
ty. And when the inventiveness and
curiosity were well developed, a cer-

’ tain branch of the apes learned to
tv walk upright, so that his horizon was
ul extended in another way. To see a
long distance is to learn to think in
terms of long distances, to calculate.
« Man’s ability to walk upright and use
his hands, and his natural capacity to
^ see into the distance instead of look-
Jl' ing at the ground, became weapons
of survival. He developed intelligence :
i because it was the only way to stay
i alive. And so, at the beginning of
li human evolution, man was forced to
|| make a virtue of his ability to focus
& his attention upon minute particulars.
® No doubt he would have preferred to
1 eat his dinner and then sleep in the
B sun, like the sabre-toothed tiger or
ju the hippopotamus; but he was more
1 defenseless than they were, and had
§ to maintain constant vigilance ....

He is not entirely happy with this
civilization that his peculiar powers
have created. Its main trouble is that
it takes so much looking after. Many
men possess the animals’ preference
for the instinctive life of oneness with
nature; they dream about the plea-
sure of being a shepherd drowsing on
a warm hillside, or an angler beside a
stream. Oddly enough, such men have
never been condemned as sluggards;
they are respected as poets, and the
soldiers and businessmen enjoy
reading their daydreams when the
day’s work is over.

A poet is simply a man in whom
the links with our animal past are
still strong. He is aware that we con-
tain a set of instinctive powers that

are quite separate from the powers
needed to win a battle or expand a
business.

—The Occult (1971)

On H. P. Lovecraft:

It must be admitted that Love-
craft is a very bad writer. When he is
at his best, his style might be mis-
taken for Poe’s .... But he makes
few concessions to credibility, in spite
of his desire to be convincing. His
stories are full of horror-film conven-
tions, the most irritating of which is
the trustful stupidity of the hero, who
ignores signs and portents until he is
face to face with the actual hor-
ror. ... All his stories have the same
pattern.

But although Lovecraft is such a ’
bad writer, he has something of the
same kind of importance as Kafka. If
his work fails as literature, it still
holds an interest as a psychological
case history. Here was a man who
made no attempt whatever to come

to terms with life. He hated modern
civilization, particularly its confident
belief in progress and science.
Greater artists have had the same
feeling, from Dostoyevsky to Kafka
and Eliot. They have used different
techniques to undermine man’s com-
placency. Dostoyevsky emphasized
the human capacity for suffering and
ecstasy; Eliot emphasized human
stupidity and futility. Only Kafka’s
approach was as naive as Lovecraft’ s.
He also relied simply on presenting a
picture of the world’s mystery and
the uncertainty of the life of man.

—The Strength to Dream (1962)

On the tyranny of
the present:

The greatest human problem is
that we are all tied to the present.
This is because we are machines, and
our free will is almost infinitesimal.
Our body is an elaborate machine,
just like a motor car. Or perhaps a
better simile would be those
“powered” artificial limbs worn by
people who have lost an arm or leg.
These limbs, with their almost inde-
structible power units, are as respon-
sive ^ our real arms and legs, and I I
am told that a man who has worn
them for years can totally forget that
they are not real limbs. But if the
power unit should break down, he
quicky realizes that his limb is only a
machine, and that his own will-power
plays a very small part in its
movements. •

Well, this is true of all of us. We
have far less will-power than we be-
lieve. This means that we have
almost no real freedom. This hardly
matters most of the time, because the
“machine”— our bodies and brains
—is doing what we want anyway: *
eating and drinking and excreting -j
and sleeping and making love and the i
rest. =

But poets and mystics have mo- »
ments of freedom when they sud-
denly realize that they want the |
“machine” to do something far more |
interesting. They want the mind to be |
able to detach itself from the world at |
a moment’s notice, and float above it. |
Our attention is usually fixed upon
minute particulars, actual objects
around us, like a car in gear. Then, in
certain moments, the car goes into
“neutral”; the mind ceases to be
engaged with trivial particulars, and
finds itself free. Instead of being tied

31

to the dull reality of the present, it is
free to choose which reality it prefers
to contemplate. When your mind is
“in gear,” you can use your memory
to recall yesterday, or to create a pic-
ture of a place on the other side of
the world. But the picture remains
dim, like a candle in the sunlight, or
a mere ghost. In the “poetic”
moments, the moments of freedom,
yesterday becomes as real as now.

If we could learn the trick of put-
ting the mind in and out of gear, man
would have the secret of godhead.
But no trick is more difficult to learn.

—The Mind Parasites (1967)

On human optimism:

Human beings live on hopes of
various kinds. We know we have to
die. We have no idea where we came
from, or where we are going t(^ We
know that we are subject to accident
and illness. We know that we seldom
achieve what we want; and if we
achieve it, we have ceased to appre-
ciate it. All this we know, and yet
we remain incurably optimistic, even
deceiving ourselves with absurd, pa-
tently nonsensical, beliefs about life
after death.

—“The Return of the Lloigor” in

Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (1969)

On the Outsider’s vision:

What can be said to characterize
the Outsider is a sense of strange-
ness, of unreality . . . that can strike
out of a perfectly clear sky. Good
health and strong nerves can make it
unlikely; but that may be only
because the man in good health is
thinking about other things and
doesn’t look in the direction where
the uncertainty lies. And once a man
has seen it, the world can never
afterwards be quite the same
straightforward place. Barbusse has
shown us that the Outsider is a man
who cannot live in the comfortable,
insulated world of the bourgeois,
accepting what he sees and touches
as reality. “He sees too deep and too
much,” and what he sees is essential-
ly chaos. For the bourgeois, the world
is fundamentally an orderly place,
with a disturbing element of the irra-
tional, the terrifying, which his pre-
occupation with the present usually
permits him to ignore. For the Out-
sider, the world is not rational, not
orderly. When he asserts his sense of
anarchy in the face of the bourgeois’

complacent acceptance, it is not sim-
ply the need to cock a snook at re-
spectability that provokes him; it is a
distressing sense that truth must be
told at all costs, otherwise there can
be no hope for an ultimate restora-
tion of order. Even if there seems no
room for hope, truth must be told.

—The Outsider (1956)

On the Outsider’s
quest for identity:

Who am I?— This is the Outsider’s
final problem .... For what is identi-
ty? These men traveling down to the
City in the morning, reading their
newspapers or staring at adver-
tisements above the opposite seats,
they have no doubt of who they are.
Inscribe on the placard in place of
the advertisement for corn-plasters,
Eliot’s lines:

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

and they would read it with the same
mild interest with which they read
the rhymed advertisement for razor
blades, wondering what on earth the
manufacturers will be up to next.
Some of them even carry identity
cards— force of habit— that would tell
you precisely who they are and where
they live.

They have aims, these men, some
of them very distant aims: a new car
in three years, a house at Surbiton in
five; but an aim is not an ideal. They
are not play-actors. They change
their shirts every day, but never their
conception of themselves. . . .

These men are in prison: that is
the Outsider’s verdict. They are quite
contented in prison— caged animals
who have never known freedom; but
it is prison all the same. And the Out-
sider? He is in prison too: nearly
every Outsider in his book has told us
so in a different language; but he
knows it. His desire is to escape. But
a prison-break is not an easy matter;
you must know all about your prison,
otherwise you might spend years in
tunneling, like the Abbe in The Count
of Monte Cristo, and only find your-
self in the next cell.

And, of course, the final revela-
tion comes when you look at these
City-men on the train; for you realize
that for them, the business of escap-
ing is complicated by the fact that

they think they are the prison. An
astounding situation! Imagine a large
castle on an island, with almost ines-
capable dungeons. The jailor has in-
stalled every d€;vice to prevent the
prisoners escaping, and he has taken
one final precaution: that of hypno-
tizing the prisoners, and then sug-
gesting to them that they and the
prison are one. When one of the
prisoners awakes to the fact that he
would like to be free, and suggests
this to his fellow prisoners, they look
at him with surprise and say: “Free
from what? We are the castle.” Wliat
a situation!

And this is just what happens to
the Outsider. There is only one solu-
tion. He personally must examine the
castle, draw his inferences as to its
weaker points, and plan to escape

—The Outsider

On the success of
The Outsider —
and its aftermath:

I was born in 1931 into a work-
ing-class family in Leicester; my
father was a boot-and-shoe operative
who earned three pounds a week.
This meant that education was hard
to come by. I realize this sounds
absurd at this point in the twentieth
century. But what has to be under-
stood is that English working-class
families— particularly factory workers
—live in a curious state of apathy
that would make Oblomov seem a
demon of industry. My own family,
for example, simply never bother to
call in a doctor when they feel ill;
they just never get around to it. One
family doctor— an Irishman, now
dead and probably in Hell— killed
about six of my family with sheer
bumbling incompetence, and yet it
never struck anyone to go to another
doctor.

This explains why, although I was
fairly clever at school and passed
exams easily enough, I never went
to a university. No one thought of
suggesting it. Anyway, my family
wanted me to bring home a weekly
wage packet. So I left school at six-
teen. (My brother left at fourteen.)

In a way, this was a good thing.
Ever since I was twelve, I had been
preoccupied with the question of the
meaning of human existence, and
whether all human values are not
pure self-delusion. (No doubt this f^-

32

ing was intensified by my dislike of
the vague, brainless, cowlike drifting
of the people around me.) My main
interest was in science— particularly
atomic physics— so that I was obsessed
by the idea that there must be a sci-
entific method for investigating this
question of human existence. At four-
teen, I discovered Shaw’s Man and
Superman, and realized, with a
shock, that I was not the first human
being to ask the question. After that,
I discovered Eliot’s Waste Land,
Goethe’s Faust and Dostoyevsky’s
Devils in quick succession, and began
to feel that I was acquiring the basic
data for attacking the problem. Since
no school or university in England
provides courses in this problem, it is
probably as well that I set out to
work on my own at sixteen.

For the next eight years I worked
in various jobs— mostly unskilled
labor— and continued to accumulate
data. I also did a good deal of writing
—I kept a voluminous journal, which
was several million words long by the
time I was twenty-four. It was an ex-
tremely hard and discouraging busi-
ness, for I knew no one whose inter-
ests overlapped with mine. I married
when I was nineteen, and a wife and
child added to the problems. But at
least it meant that I got used to
working completely and totally alone,
and not expecting encouragement.
Later on, reviewers and critics were
outraged by what one of them called
“his stupefying assurance about his
own genius.” But it would have been
impossible to go on working without
some conviction of genius— at least,
of certainty about the importance of
what I was doing, and the belief that
it wouldn’t matter if no other human
being ever came to share this certain-
ty. The feeling of alienation had to be
totally accepted. Luckily, I’ve always
had a fairly cheerful temperament,
not much given to self-pity. So I went
on working, reading and writing in
my total vacuum, without contact
with any other writer or thinker. I
finally came to accept that I might
spend all my life working in factories,
and that my writing might never see
print. It was hard to swallow, but I
swallowed it, feeling that if Blake and
Nietzsche could do without recogni-
tion, so could 1.

Then a publisher to whom I sent
the first few pages of The Outsider
accepted it. And when I was nearly

twenty-five, there came that shatter-
ing morning when I woke up and
found press men banging at the door
and television and radio demanding
interviews. It was such a total change
that it was like a bang on the head.
The Outsider shot to the top of the
nonfiction best-seller list in England
and America, and was translated into
fourteen languages within eighteen
months. It so happened that a num-
ber of young writers made their
appearance at this time, including
John Osborne, John Braine, and my
friend Bill Hopkins. The press labeled
us “Angry Young Men.” In my case,
nothing could have been more gro-
tesquely inappropriate. I was aggres-
sively nonpolitical. I believed that

people who make a fuss about politics
do so because their heads are too
empty to think about more important
things. So I felt nothing but impa-
tient contempt for Osborne’s Jimmy
Porter and the rest of the heroes of
social protest.

The tide turned very quickly. . . .
The experience was vertiginous.
After a month of the noisiest and
gaudiest kind of success, in which
popular reviewers compared me to
Plato, Shelley, Shaw and D.H.
Lawrence, the merry-go-round came
suddenly to a halt, and then began to
revolve in the opposite direction. My
name became a kind of dirty word to
serious critics, and the ones who had
“discovered” me winced when they
remembered their praises. Every
Christmas in England, the “posh” *
Sunday papers run a feature in which
eminent men and women are asked
their opinion of the best books of the
year. Not one mentioned The Out-
sider, except Arthur Koestler, who
went out of his way to refer to it as

- ¥

the “bubble of the year,” “in which a
young man discovers that men of
genius suffer from Weltschmerz.”

If The Outsider was an unprece-
dented success, my next book. Reli-
gion and the Rebel, was an unprece-
dented failure. The highbrow critics
seized the opportunity to go back on
their praise of The Outsider. And the
popular press joined in like a gang of
Indians invited to a massacre. Time,
with its usual awe-inspiring vulgarity,
ran a kind of obituary on me headed
“Scrambled Egghead.”

It was then I was grateful for my
ten years’ training in standing on my
own feet. I had disliked the success of
The Outsider. I don’t much like people
anyway, so the endless succession of
parties and receptions, and the
hordes of new acquaintances, left me
with a strong feeling of “people
poisoning.” Six months after The
Outsider came out, I moved as far
away from London as I could get, to a
cottage in Cornwall. There I plunged
into the world of religious mysticism
—of Eckhart and Boehme, Pascal and
Swedenborg— of which I wrote in
Religion and the Rebel. Success or
failure didn’t matter all that much,
provided one had enough money to
live. The Outsider made me less
money than might be expected— taxes
took a lot of it, and I spent the rest
pretty quickly— but I lived frugally
anyway. The sheer malice of some of
the attacks on me was difficult to
swallow. But I felt I held a final card
—my long practice in working alone,
which probably meant that I could go
on writing longer than my critics
could go on sneering. The prospect of
continuing the battle until I was nine-
ty gave me a certain grim satisfac-
tion. When my second book was
hatcheted, I shrugged and went on
working. The attacks didn’t worry me
too much. I know enough of success
to know that it is meaningless unless
it is based on real understanding. I
recognized that such understanding
would probably take twenty years to
grow. I was right. After ten years, it
seems to be developing in countries
where I would have least expected it—
Japan, India, France, Spain, Arabia
(the Arabs have translated seven of
my books in the past year). Even in
America. It may happen in England
if I can live to be ninety or so.
—Postscript to “The Outsider” (1967)
(continued on page 64)

33

Presenting the Winners
of (Mr Second Annual
Short Story Contest

CHOSEN BY THE EDITORS OF

^UGHT ZONE

^ MAGAZINE*^

A TRIO OF PRIZEWINNERS
' —AND A BONUS SHORT-SHORT—
SHOWCASING FOUR
EXCEPTIONAL NEW TALENTS.

A voyage into fantasy via the transforming vision of a
child ... a savage allegory about art and human nature
... a nighttime encounter with destiny in an unexpected
form . . . These are the prizewinners in this year's
Twilight Zone Short Story Contest, dedicated to the
memory of Rod Serling, whose professional career was
launched when, as a college student, he won a cash prize in
a natimwide writing competition. With the goal of offering
a similar opportunity to today’s emerging talmts, TZ’s
contest was limited to writers who’d never before had
fiction published professionally. The three stories on the
pages that follow— all winners, and sharing the prize
money equally among them— were selected by the editors of
this magazine from among more than four thousand
entries. Also included, by way of bonus, is a fourth
story— an ingeniously wry short-short— designed to round
out the collection, making for a quartet of unusually
impressive debuts.

Illustrations by Yvonne Buchanan

THE JOURNEY

hy Ahbie Herrick

tubes warmed there was only a hum. He pressed the
selector bar, but the needle only moved to the end of
the station band, clicked, and started over again,
never once stopping. And Leland cursed and said
that it was just his luck that the radio was broken.

Then Ada mentioned that the clock wasn’t
working either, and that it hadn’t been ever since
she set it just at the time they left.

Leland told her that she had broken it. And
Ada said it was because the car was so old, that any-
thing could fall apart, that Leland should have got-
ten a new one years ago.

Leland’s knuckles whitened on the steering
wheel. The Cadillac was his dream, the statement of
his position in a -world where corporeal acquisitions
counted. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, always
dreamed of,” he told her once. And with those words
he breathed a kind of elemental life into the metal
body so that it was no longer just a means of
transportation.

, And when they stopped for food or rest or gas

dream.

And on the evening of the first day when the
low sun cast long distorted shadows, Jinnje raised
herself from her pillow inside the car that she called
“Woodie” because to her it was more than just a
conveyance; it was a friendly being that succored
and comforted her. On looking through her window
she called out, “We’re a monster, we’re a monster!”

Leland cursed, slamming on the brakes as he
turned to look. The car behind them blew its horn,
and Ada told him to watch where he was going, that
the child was sick; she had only seen a shadow. Mut-
tering, Leland turned the radio on, but after the

35

for the car, they were uneasy space explorers step-
ping out on a hostile planet, staying only as long as
necessary before reentering their craft. On the first
night when they arrived at a motel, Leland carried
Jinnje out of the Cadillac and laid her on the trundle
bed while Ada soaked some towels in water. Then
they went out to clean the suitcases and the
Cadillac’s floor of Jinnje’s sickness. Leland brought
back a paD from the trunk, but when he entered the
room he found Ada mopping up the floor by Jinnje’s
bed.

“Goddamn, couldn’t she make it to the toilet?”

“She’s too weak.”

“Ten years old and she still pukes every time
she goes anywhere. I’ll be damned if she ever makes
it to eleven,” he said, hating the child that was only
an unwanted by-product of desire, who made her
presence unavoidable by the sickness spread about
the floor of the dream that was to free him of his
mediocrity.

“You shut up, Lee.” J^Ala laid a cold washcloth
over Jinnje’s head, her face a mask of pious concern.

“Ma?” Jinnje opened her eyes and turned. “I
want Dracula. I wanna see Dracula.”

“What the shit is that?”

“It’s her stuffed horse. She calls it Dracula.
She can’t sleep without it.”

“Hell,” he said. “I threw that out, it was full
of puke.”

“No,” said Ada.

“Ma, he threw away my horse.” Jinnje rose up
on her elbows and looked straight into her father’s
eyes. “I hate your dirty rotten guts, you threw away
my horse.”

“Jinnje, watch your language.”

“I’ll slap the goddamn living—”

“Lee!” Ada moved between them.

Leland and Ada glared at each other, said
nothing for a while. Then Leland drew back. “I
didn’t throw it out, it’s still in the car.”

Ada and Leland left together, but as Jinnje
leaned over her bed she could hear her father’s
voice. “Damn sourpuss kid, she just gets in my way.
If it weren’t-”

“Leland, for God’s sake!”

“Yeah, God’s sake. Carrying that damn kid
like a cross on your back, like she’s your ticket into
heaven.”

And on the morning of the second day, as the
Fleetwood’s heavy snow-tires thrummed along the
open road, Jinnje woke up seeing bare winter
branches weaving past great Woodie’s windows. And
even through the sheet the seat felt damp, for the
windows had been left open the night before. The
pail was on the floor beside her, surrounded by
newspapers in case she missed. And Dracula the
horse was in her arms, all mottled grey from when
she tried to ink his white fur black, and bloated in

spots from when Ada caught her and threw Dracula
into the washing machine which knocked his stuff-
ings out of shape. And she could hear big Woodie
softly humming all around her as he split the air
before him with his great prowed hood. A monster
he was, throwing great monster shadows every time
the sun was low. Like the monsters that she used to
watch run past her house when Woodie was young
and she was little. Great monsters from the top of
the hill that came running down with their sun-
bright eyes and demon faces. And Leland shook his
fist and cursed at them and at the humans inside
them for what he said they did to him. But she
would watch them as they swept by at night, gar-
goyle monsters on wheels with long red taillights,
and maybe one would stop and sweep her up with it.
Then she would be flying with the monsters, back
where the monsters lived and carried out unholy ex-
periments with grown-up humans. But she would be
safe because she liked monsters and she was still lit-
tle. Too little, in fact, for her age. And skinny and
sick. Always sick, God and angels frowning down,
she felt the tightening in her throat, barely able to
raise herself and lean over the pail. But now the
monsters were taking her to their home.

As the sun rose higher, the heat began to seep
through Woodie’s sky-blue body, warming the
headlining and the heavy padded seats until the wool
cloth let out its soft familiar smell.

“My God,” said Leland, almost laughing as he
pushed down on the window buttons. “That puke’s
beginning to stink.”

“Stop it, Lee. You don’t smell a thing.”

She was flying inside the sky-blue monster.
Sky-blue and chrome surrounded her, star-sparkling
bright and warm even though the cold wind whipped
across her face as great Woodie climbing an over-
pass cleaved through clouds of morning mist. She
felt lifting. Lifting away to float forever in the sky-
blue in the house of the monsters who came down
the hill. Away from the grown-ups. Away from the
boys who beat her up at school. Away from the sick-
ness that made her retch even when her stomach
was empty. Made her retch up even water, and
green bile when there wasn’t water. The humming
grew louder. Woodie was singing her a song.

“Jinnje, you hafta go to the bathroom?” Ada

asked.

“No.”

“Well, she’d better get out anyway. Maybe
if she’d get some air, she’d stop that goddamned
puking.”

Woodie had to stop for gas, and Leland and
Ada became again like space explorers on hostile
ground. And Jinnje leaned on Ada as she took her to
the restroom, while Leland emptied out her pail and
rinsed it at a spigot.

And as Jinnje returned, she saw Woodie gleam

36

in the afternoon sun like a faery car, like some heav-
enly machine just dropped from the sky to carry her
away.

Leland paid the attendant who was staring at
the car. [

“What year is she?” the attendant asked. “1
ain’t seen one like that in a long time.”

“Fifty-six. A Fleetwood.”

“That’s a right pretty automobile. Sure kept
her in good shape.”

“Yeah,” Leland said. Ada and Jinnje stood
behind him. He was blocking the door Jinnje used to

pnfpr

“How much?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“How much for her?”

Jinnje held on to Woodie. She felt sick again.
But Leland backed away from the man, his knuckles
whitening as he gripped the door handle.

They were a car.

And as they pulled out into the long evening
shadows, Woodie again became their universe, their
starship hurtling through a hostile space to a distant
dream. And his shadow cast a monster shape as
Jinnje, barely able to reach the sill, fell back and
stared up at the sky-blue headlining and felt great
Woodie’s presence all around her, lifting her out of
her pain and sickness. And the world that rolled
beneath the Cadillac’s wheels passed into oblivion as

the monster carried its human passengers into a uni-
verse where the only laws were its own. She could
hear him as he sang his thrumming song to her and
told her of how the three of them now belonged to
him and how they had ever since they refused to sell
him. They were his souls, he told her. And he was
their chromium god, their only god, their material
lusts giving him conscious existence. And he was
taking them to the place of the monsters which the
others thought was the haven they hoped to find, as
they saw him' as the embodiment of their American
dream. And she, he told her, had been their sacrifice,
their offering to him as their ancestors offered to the
gods of other times. Jinnje smiled and felt herself
rising from the cold and damp to a sapphire bril-
liance reaching out with warmth and love as Woodie
accepted her and sang to her, and they were going
up the hill to live in the house of the monsters
forever.

And he granted the other two their wish for
material security and carried them on.

“Lee?” Ada turned in her seat. “I think we’d
better find a doctor for Jinnje. She really looks bad.”

“Hell, never mind. It’s just car sickness.
Anyway, we’ll be there soon.”

They were a car.

And the car was their universe, their spaceship
of forever, traveling over a fleeting now to a burned-
out star in the depths of infinity.

CRITIQUE

by Brian Ferguson

t was a typical modem classroom. Rectangular
like a box. The drab tile floor stretched to the far end of the room, where it
was cut off by an eight-foot wall of cold, hard brick. On top of the wall was a
row of short windows— more suitable for peering in than for looking out. The
ceiling was covered with acoustical tile to absorb the sound, and the fluorescent
tubes cast a cold, clinical light throughout the room. Thirty-five desks, with
cheap plastic seats, were precisely arranged in seven rows of five. They faced
the blackboard, an instrument of torture so common its victims don’t even
scream when its contents are poured into their brains like sand. The Instmctor

sat quietly at his desk watching the students enter. He had seen this scene
often during the last twenty years. Year after year, no matter how happy and
noisy they were in the hallway, they became hushed as they entered the door.
“They know what we do here,” he thought.

Middle-aged, with brown hair, the instructor
had one wife, two tv’s, three kids, and a mortgage.
He was John Doe, Joe Average, a face in the crowd,
and “Who cares? A job is a job.’’

“Could you move your desks into a circle,
please, so that we can all see each other?”

immediately there was the sound of moving
desks. People bumped into one another in the rush
to please. Interestingly, however, the circle never
completely closed. None of them moved their desks
near the Instructor. He was sitting in the opening of
a horseshoe, eight feet from the nearest student.

“I believe we were going to begin with John
today. Since he isn’t here yet, why don’t we—”

The door opened. «

“Ah, John, we were just getting started. We
didn’t know if you were coming. Are you ready to go
first?”

John, embarrassed at being late, nodded an
answer to the Instructor’s question and quickly
pulled a desk into the semicircle. He was a slender
young man with sandy blond hair and sensitive blue
eyes. There was a slight bulge in his jacket that he
cradled carefully with his left arm. As soon as he
was settled, the Instructor called on him.

“Go ahead and begin.”

John unzipped his jacket halfway and was
reaching in with his right hand when he suddenly
paused. He looked at the faces of his classmates. All
eyes were on him. They seemed to be— hungry? He
looked away from them.

Slowly and gently John withdrew his surprise.
It was a dove. Soft, gentle, and perfectly white. It
nestled comfortably in John’s hand, cooing quietly as
he stroked the back of its neck. One of the girls in
the class began to sigh but caught herself before
anyone noticed.

John cupped the bird in both hands and leaned
his head forward to whisper a prayer of hope in the
bird’s ear. Then, sitting up straight, he raised his
arms, opened his hands, and the bird flew!

The walls of the room disappeared, and the en-
tire class was caught up in flight. The dove sang of
waves crashing on a beach, and they all flew with
him along the sand while a crimson-orange sunset ig-
nited the clouds. The dove sang of branches waving
in a breeze, and they chased each other laughing
through the trees of a giant forest. The dove sang of
the majesty of high mountain peaks, and they soared
over a Himalayan sunrise.

And oh! the blue, blue sky! And the sheer im-
mensity of the clouds! And the Peace! And the Vi-
sion! and the Beauty! And the Freedom! . . .

“Any comments?” the Instructor asked.

The girl who had almost sighed wanted to say,
“It was perfect! I loved it!” but she didn’t. The class
sat silently, not looking at one another. The bird
stood on the Instructor’s desk.

“What worked for you and what didn’t?”
Silence. “Let’s see, who haven’t we called on? Tom?”

“Well, I thought he captured the feeling of
flight.”

“Was it believable?” asked the Instructor.

“No, it wasn’t,” Dennis interrupted. “Doves
can’t fly that high.”

“Did that strain its credibility for you,
Dennis?”

“Yes.”

“How would you fix it?”

Dennis walked to the Instructor’s desk and
picked up a pair of scissors. Grabbing the bird in his
left hand, he quickly and efficiently clipped its wings
so that it would never fly again.

“Thank you, Dennis,” the Instructor said.
“Who else would like to help John?” There was no
reply. “What about the bird’s song?”

Tom spoke up. “I guess that wasn’t very be-
lievable either.”

“Why not, Tom?”

“Because doves don’t really sing, they just
sound like pigeons.”

“Will you fix it, Tom?”

Tom took the scissors and cut out the bird’s
tongue. Being less experienced, he did a messy job,
and blood continued to trickle out of the bird’s beak
after he finished. The bird was now lying on its side
quivering.

“Yes, Betty?” She was raising her hand.

“I was turned off by the bird’s whiteness. No-
body’s that pure, even in fairy tales. It seemed a bit,
well, childish.”

“Do you have a solution?”

Betty dumped half a bottle of India ink on the
dying bird.

“Are there any more comments for John?”
asked the Instructor. No. “John, do you have any
questions for us?” Staring at his hands, John shook
his head. “Very well,” said the Iristructor, picking up
the lifeless bird and dropping it into his box of
Things to Be Graded. “I beliew? Karen is next. Is
that right?”

John, who had been thinking about his once
beautiful dove, looked up just in, time to see Karen
open a small shoe box and take cut a tiny chipmunk.
He smiled to himself and reached into his pocket for
his switchblade.

EVENING IN THE PARK

by Susan Rooke

ang! Sara slammed the front door behind her
and strode down the sidewalk, jamming her fists into the pockets of her
sweater. She would probably freeze to death dressed so lightly, but for the
moment she dlidn’t feel a thing. How many times had she done this in the past
few weeks, she wondered, hesitating at the curb. She glanced over her
shoulder at the house and considered going back to discuss the situation. Noth-
ing could be SLCcomplished this way. In that brief pause, the curtain at the liv-
ing room window was flicked aside to make a tiny peephole. Then it quickly
settled back into place. Okay, fine. If Barry wanted to stand there sneaking
looks at her through the living room curtains instead of coming out to bring
her back, so be it. He was probably just waiting till she A^as out of sight so he
could call his mistress without being interrupted. Deciding to make life easier
for Barry, Ss^ra stepped down off the curb, looked both ways, and headed
across the street to the park.

The park was empty this time of year, remind-
ing Sara of a cemetery. The trees were stiff and
sharp; dead leaves in the deep end of the swimming
pool whispered against the concrete. Perhaps this
was not a good idea. It was almost five o’clock, get-
ting dark already. Sara briefly envisioned herself
crawling back to Barry on her hands and knees. “Hi,
Barry. I went to the park and got raped. Guess I
showed you.” No, that wouldn’t do. On the other
hand, no rapist would bother coming to this desolate
spot for a victim. He would never dream that some-
one would actually oe here. Drawing confidence from
her rationalization, Sara settled into a swing. She
would stay alert, arid if anything seemed the least bit
strange . . .

“So peaceful ^vithout joggers, don’t you think?”

Sara leaped to her feet and spun toward the
voice, the swing seat striking her in the leg. Sitting
two swings away with her hands folded across a
cane in her lap was an old woman so small that her
feet did not reach the ground. She was wearing a
light summer dress, a lavender scarf tied under her
chin, and white anklets with shiny black shoes. She
smiled understandingly at Sara.

“I’m sorry, dear, did I startle you? I could see
you were lost in your own thoughts, so I felt I had
better speak now. If you’d noticed me in ten
minutes, your reaction would’ve been rather more
pronounced.” As she spoke, the swing moved gently
back and forth without apparent effort from its occu-
pant. The old woman waited patiently for Sara to
gather her wits enough to speak.

“Have you been there the whole time?” The
woman was small, but she wasn’t invisible. Sara
couldn’t imagine how she had overlooked her.

“Yes, I have,” She nodded firmly, the ends of
her scarf bobbing. “Sitting in this spot. You looked
right through me. Not very flattering, but I’m ac-
customed to it.”

“Really?” Sara considered for a moment the
old woman’s unsuitable and rather odd attire.
“Aren’t you cold?”

“Not especially. I find it doesn’t bother me
much.” She paused and scrutinized Sara carefully.
“You must be freezing, though. Nothing but a light
sweater.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t even* noticed if I was
cold or not.” Sara settled back into the swing, feel-

39

ing somewhat safer in the old woman’s company.

After swinging for a while in silence, Sara
began to feel conversational. Curiosity overcame her
usual reticence with strangers. “You said you like
this park— do you come here often, then?”

“No, not really. Just when I have some clear-
ing out to do.” The old woman waved a frail hand
vaguely in the air, indicative of mental cobwebs.

Sara sighed. “I know what you mean.”

The old woman smiled kindly at her. “Do you,
dear? You should be too young to have problems
weighing you down. After you get to be my age,
then you have problems.”

“That’s too bad. I’d hoped you’d reach a stage
when all your problems could be left behind.”

“Oh, that would be a fortunate person.
Perhaps some day you’ll have your wish.”

Sara opened her mouth to speak, then jumped,
feeling as if someone or something had touched her
knee. She glanced furtively at the old woman, whose
hands calmly rested on the cjne across her lap. How
ridiculous. She wasn’t close enough to reach,
anyway. Trying to relax, Sara dismissed the sensa-
tion as the product of her tired imagination. God
knew she had reason enough to be jumpy. Barry’s
behavior the past couple of weeks had been secre-
tive, to say the least. Every time she had walked in
on him lately, she had the feeling of interrupting an
intimate conversation that he had been holding with
the bare walls. A conversation, of course, all about
her.

Then there were the telephone calls with
Barry’s end being carried on in code. He said it was
business, but wasn’t that the oldest excuse known to
man?

Sara realized she didn’t need excuses to tell
her what was happening. Her intuition and a failed
love affair before her marriage told her all she
wanted to know: she was well on her way to another
broken relationship. And so she swung slowly back
and forth, studying the bare ground moving beneath
her and trying not to think too much. It was
depressing.

“In a year’s time, you’ll probably wonder why
you wasted so much energy worrying about it.”

Sara’s head snapped up in Surprise. “How in
the world did you know what I was thinking?”

“It wasn’t hard. I’ve learned to read people
fairly well over the years, and your face so obviously
said, ‘Why me?’ ” The old woman gave the ends of
her lavender scarf a securing tug. “You really must
try to believe in yourself, my dear. You can change
almost any situation with a little correctly applied
thought.”

“I don’t know. I can’t shake the feeling that
most things happen for no reason whatsoever.” She
glanced around and deliberately changed the subject.
“I wish it wasn’t so dark already. With just the two
of us here, it gives me the creeps.”

Suddenly a pool of light opened at their feet as
the street lamp overhead flashed on. The park was
brilliantly lit from one end to the next as all the
lights came to life at once.

Sara gave a small shriek and clapped a hand to
her mouth. Then she burst out laughing. “Somebody
must be listening! That just alx)ut scared me to
death.”

The old woman was still swinging calmly, com-
pletely unaffected. “It seems to me you got your
wish.”

Sara grinned. “I wish I had.” She missed her
companion’s pained expression. “These lights must
be on a time-delay switch.”

A demurring cough came; from the second
swing. “You don’t think perhaps it was what you
said that caused the lights to come on?”

Sara chuckled. Obviously the old party was
having her on. “Hardly. Nothing: I’ve ever said has
changed things one iota.”

The old woman looked at her reprovingly but
said nothing. They swung for a while longer in
silence, Sara hoping she hadn’t been rude in her
breezy dismissal. She had always been taught to be
unfailingly polite to her elders, no matter how
strange they might be. At last she said, “Wouldn’t it
be lovely if things did work that way? When I was a
little girl I used to make wishes and hope that they’d
come true, but they never did.” She smiled. “Maybe
I just didn’t know the right wishes to make.”

The old woman put a veined hand on the knob
of her cane and waited. Finally she prompted,
“What would you wish for today, if you were able to
make just one?”

Sara shrugged. She didn’t particularly want to
take the conversation any further, but she didn’t
want to brush off such a well-me£ming old person. To
be polite, she said the first thing that came into her
head.

“Probably a new tv— the one I have now is
junk. It makes all the colors blue-gray and the people
short and squatty.” She nodded abruptly. “That’s it.
I wish I had a new twenty-six-inch color tv, cable-
ready. There. We’ll see what happens.” Feeling
slightly foolish, Sara stood up with a false bright
smile. “I’d better go. My husband’s bound to be
wondering about me.” Brushing off the seat of her
slacks, she started away, then tuimed back. “I’ve en-
joyed our conversation. Maybe we’ll run into each
other again here. I come to the park fairly often.”

The old woman smiled and nodded. “That
would be lovely, dear ...” When Sara was out of
hearing, “. . . but highly unlikely.” She sagged into
the seat of her swing, slightly depressed. Her
failures always affected her this way. You prompt
them, she thought, give them every chance, and
their human pigheadedness preserves the status quo.
The swing next to her gave a slight creak as a light-
ly furred creature with tufted (;ars settled fastidi-

40

ously into the seat.

“What do jou think she’ll do when she gets
home and finds the new tv?” it asked.

“I im^ne she’ll come back here looking for
me.” The fairy godmother sighed deeply. “We’d bet-
ter leave now, I suppose. She lives just across the
street.”

The creature jumped down from the swing.
“You shouldn’t l(;t it get to you,” it said. “She
wasted the first two, but she had her three wishes
fair and square.”

The fairy godmother snorted. “Yes, and all it
will get her is more trouble over the property settle-
ment. Her husband will end up with it, and she’ll
blame me.” She hopped lightly from the swing and
gripped her cane resolutely about the middle. “Oh,
well. Let’s get busy. We still have three more people
to see tonight.”

“How many more tv’s have you got in you?”
the creature teased.

“Oh, please.” Together they started out of the

park.

SAY GOODBYE TO JUDY

by William B. Barfield

really do despise these services; they’re so final.
I didn’t want to come. These things depress me more than just about anything
else I do. But if I didn’t at least make an appearance, the town would never
forgive me, especially as close as I was to her. So here I sit, in my best suit,
dirty brown, l istening to a little old blue-haired organist pump out somber songs
for us to endure. Naturally it’s raining a steady drizzle outside. What a lousy
day. I sure am going to miss her. We all are.

There’s her poor mother sitting down front, about that guy and his car she just couldn’t resist.
Already she’s sniffling, trying to hold back all those She didn’t care that he was nothing but a second-
tears. She never expected to endure anything like rate race car driver, or that he had the IQ of a com-
this at Judy’s tender age. Seems like only yesterday mon cold. Off they went that afternoon, screaming
Judy and I were cavorting around together, laugh- tires all the way. A special day, he said. Three days
ing, the very best of friends. She would talk of her later I heard the awful news,
dreams of becoming a nurse and helping people. As I turn around, the music swells. I can see

I wish they would hurry up and get this ritual the six escorts bringing her down to the altar, her
over with. Would you look at all those flowers? They father with them. He should really be with her
must have cleaned out every florist for miles mother; the poor woman’s sobbing full tilt now. I
around . . . wish that noisy kid behind me would shut up. Why

Judy had a scholarship to the state school. She do parents bring children to these things? They don’t
was so promising Then that car showed up, that understand what’s going on.

damned crimson Corvette. I told her that guy went She’s at tHe altar, damn it. Oh, Judy! God, she

too fast! God, what a terrible waste! Her life has just looks good in white! A mumbling preacher and two
been thrown into the garbage can. phrases end it all: “I do” and “pronounce you man

Our preacher shouldn’t wear those robes. He and wife.” Give them a rousing cheer if you’re so
looks more like an angel of death than a guide to happy!

everlasting life. Even his prayer book is black. Why him? He’s not much, and she’s not preg-

41

5iti

by Scott Edelman

THE OLD TV HAD
EXTRAORDINARILY
GOOD RECEPTION-
IT REACHED ALL THE WAY
TO THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

Dear Mr. Klein;

You’ve got to be kidding, right?

I’ve been watching TZ leruns on my battered
old Zenith for as long as I can remember, and I
know all of the ’Twilight Zone trivia— casting
listings, writing credits, plot convolutions, twist
endings, etc. I would have sworn that you’d have
all of it doT n pat, too; I guess I figured it came
with the job.

Next thing you’U be telling me you never saw
the episode with Sebastian Cabot as a third-grade
math teacher who has an Insolent pint-sized Jackie
Coogan in his class, playing the boy who may very
well be Cabot himself as a child. I just saw it on
my set for what must have been the twentieth time
last week.

Sincerely,

Scott Edelman

Dear Mr. Klein:

It’s been wonderful reliving the golden age of
television these past months in your magazine via
Marc Zicree’s guide to The Twilight Zone ’s classic
episodes. I’ve been a lifelong Rod Serling fan, so it’s
♦ heartening to see that the market will support a
magazine dedicated to carrying on Serllng’s dream
of quality fantasy.

But now that the series is nearing its end,

I’m worried that Zicree is going to leave out some
of my favorite episodes. As far as I can tell, he’s
already skipped at least two— the one that had John
Agar as the smaU-town buUy whose hfe is changed
when he switches places for a few hours with the
meek schoolteacher he’s been taunting, and the
unforgettable tender comedy in which Irene Ryan
plays a struggling writer’s muse. How could he
possibly have forgotten them?

Sincerely,

Scott Edelman

To; Marc Zicree
From; Ted Klein

Do you know what the hell this guy is talking
about?

To: Ted
From: Marc

This Edelman guy is either senile, deluded,
or lying. I’m sure these episcdes were never
filmed; none of the people I’ve interviewed for my
Twilight Zone book remembei' writing or acting
in any of them.

TeU him that April Fool’s Day is long past
and to stop bothering busy New York editors with
his fruitcake fantasies.

Dear Mr. Edelman:

None of us at TZ— including Marc Scott Zicree,
out in Los Angeles — has heard of the episodes you
claim to have seen. Would it be possible for you to
teU me a little more about them?

Sincjerely,

Ted Klein

t-Yie tvTO epi»

Dear Mr. Klein:

I’ll do better than that. Take a look at these
BVa” X 11” glossies I shot off my Zenith last night.

Sincerely,

Scott Edehnan

To: Carol Serllng
Prom: Ted Klein

Please sit down when you read this letter.
What I’m about to tell you may seem strange at
first, but I’m sure you’ll agree after you watch the
enclosed videotapes that aU is as it should be.

You will see a Twilight Zone episode about a
pacifist G.I. (William Bendix) forced to fight with
Death (Raymond Massey) to win life for his platoon.
You are going to watch Larry Blyden become the
first comedian to make a Martian laugh, and shiver
at the reward he gets from the citizens of the red
planet. You will be amazed to see Rod introduce us
to Ed Wynn as an oddbaU inventor who solves aU
of mankind’s problems and then is visited by a
very unhappy President of the United States (Bob
Crane) who finds that without miseries to try to
cure, the government is slowly losing its power.

I am confident that Rod, somewhere, is still
creating the magic that makes people happy and
makes people think, and that if you stay up late
enough in Scott Edelman’s apartment with just the
right dosage of fafigue and the correct degree of
insomnia, you will be able to see him at work with
a crew of otherworldly compadres. But the eerie
fruits of his labors can only be seen on one
battered television set in Brooklyn.

And to answer the question I’ve already asked
myself, which is where the signals this set picks up
are being broadcast from, I can only let Rod’s
words speak for him.

“There is a fifth dimension, beyond that
which is known to man ...” fg

JUST BEYOND THE DOOR LAY

A WORLD OF DEATH AND
HORROR - AND THE
HARDEST PART WAS
KEEPING IT OUT
OF HIS HOME.

/ t was that hour of the evening when each
member of the family was sliding downhill
towards sleep. Ordinarily this was John’s
favorite time of day, when he could forget about
things like locked doors and weapons and security
procedures, forget about the hardened criminals he
guarded, and simply enjoy being a husband and
father, surrounded by those he loved.

He liked to sit in his chair, that ancient piece
with the lumps and valleys that didn’t quite fit
anyone else’s behind, to watch and listen as the
nightly activities became slower and more muted.
Judy was in the kitchen, flitting back and forth
across the doorway as she cleaned up after supper
and started breakfast preparations so everyone could
get off on time in the morning: John to the lab, the
children to school and day care, Judy to her job with
Civil Defense.

Ten-year-old Carrie was in front of the televi-
sion for the one hoim of programming her parents
allowed. John and Judy were strict, concerned
parents.

The only person whose activities varied from

night to night was Donny. He might play with his
collection of trucks and fire engines. He might go to
the kitchen to “help” his mothei'. He might watch
television. At four he was still fascinated by that
thing, that window into another world, even though
he cared nothing for what the people in that world
were doing. In spite of Carrie’s threats, when he
watched, he watched from direc:;ly in front of the
screen.

Tonight he was doing none of those things.
Donny was behaving strangely, adding to his
father’s unease. Dressed already in what he called
his “feet pajamas,” he was just sitting on the floor
humming to himself. Occasionally he would look up
at his father and then away, quickly.

What could a four-year-old have to feel guilty
about? John wondered.

Nothing. It couldn’t be guilt. The woman at
the day care center said Donny’ d had a good day,
no problems. John now made it a point to ask every
time, because a couple of months ago there had ap-
parently been some trouble with an older boy and
John hadn’t known anything Eibout it until the
morning Donny suddenly burst into tears and re-
fused to leave the apartment.

“I’ll be good! I’ll be good!” he’d promised.
“I’m big enough to stay by myself now!” Tears
were rolling down his cheeks, but the expression
in his eyes was not a childish :fear that could be
soothed with hugs or promises.

John told Judy and Carrie to go on without
them. He could have dragged Donny to the day care
center and some parents would have said that’s
what he should have done. But John knew that
would be wrong. Donny never did anything without
a reason, though sometimes finding that reason was
like trying to separate a single string from a tan-
gled mass. So he’d stayed to talk to the boy, know-
ing he would be late for work, at a time when being
late for work was almost treasonable.

Bit by bit John coaxed the story out of him.
Then he’d talked to Donny about standing up for
himself, gave him a few tips aljout fighting, if it
should come to that. Judy wouldn’t have approved of
that part of it but, dammit, a woman would just let
people walk all over her. A man soon learned that
justice wasn’t handed out on a silver platter.
Sometimes you have to take what is rightfully yours.

Donny came home that day with a split lip, but
it hadn’t stopped him from grinning at his father.
There’d been no more trouble from the other boy.
Ever since then John took time to talk to the woman
at the center. He didn’t like to be out of touch with
what his children were thinking and doing.

Until a year ago, John’s and Judy’s work
schedules were so arranged that one parent could
always be at home with the children. It made an
upside-down day for the family, but it hiad been
worth the trouble to give the children the sense of

security that could
only come from a
stable home. Then
the world had taken
a few steps closer to
war, and both the
government labs
and Civil Defense
had gone on crisis
schedules. A child’s
sense of security had
become one of those
after-the-war luxu-
ries like holidays,
full supermarket
shelves, and Sunday
afternoon drives in
the country. Assum-
ing there was an
after for this war.

John shifted in his
chair, annoyed that
his thoughts had
drifted in that direc-
tion. The war had no
right to intrude on
this, his favorite
time of day. He ap-
proved of its com-
ing— the country
couldn’t back down
again without losing
respect— but a man
and his family need
some relief from the
tension war prep-
arations produced.

In the kitchen Judy dropped a plate. John
heard it clatter and roll. She said something, a
swear word, probably, but it came out sounding like
a sob.

Carrie turned to look at the kitchen doorway.
Even ten-year-olds could feel that tension. How
could they not, with air raid drills and survival
training in school? When she turned back John
noticed the glazed look in her eyes and wondered if
she could even see the clown on the screen.

“Look, Daddy, I’ve got a bag of worms.’’

Donny was holding up one leg of his pajamas
by the foot. With his toes wiggling inside it did look
like a squirming bag of worms.

“So you do,’’ John said, trying to force a light
note into his voice. “Hey, Buster, it’s almost bed-
time. Why don’t you come here and sit beside me
and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Donny dropped his foot with a thump, then
brought his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms
around them and said, “Not going to bed anymore.”

It sounded like sheer defiance. John breathed
deeply before he allowed himself to speak. He never
spoke in anger to his children. Never. But the boy
could be stubborn. Tonight of all nights there must
be peace in the house.

“Well, why don’t you come here and we’ll talk
about it.”

Donny climbed onto his father’s knee, reluc-
tance shovidng in his stiff movements.

“Now, what’s this nonsense about not going to
bed? Everyone goes to bed at night. It’s the best
place for sleeping. You wouldn’t want to sleep on the
floor, would you? It’s too cold and hard.”

“Not goingdx) sleep. Not ever again.” His chin
was tilted at a dangerous angle— dangerous to John’s
hope for a peaceful evening.

It was this stubborn streak that worried John
most about his son. A certain amount of it was
good. It made a man stick to a job till it was done.
But too much and he’d be selfish and inconsiderate.
Judy could laugh— she did sometimes, though not

45

Etching by Steve Stankiewicz

r

Nightbears

. unkindly— but he worried that his son might turn out
badly, like the lifers he guarded who had volunteered
as guinea pigs for the government testing programs.
The only halfway decent thing they’d ever done in
their self-indulgent lives, probably. His son deserved
a better future than that.

But what was he thinking of? The boy was
' four years old and he might not have a future.

Damn. The war again.

Suddenly John could imagine what was going
through Donny’s head and it almost made him laugh.

: Of course the boy didn’t want to go to sleep. It was
a wonder they’d never had this problem before.
.Donny’s world was made up of toys and games and
love and kindness from everyone he met. Especially
so now when wartime made everyone more senti-
I mental about children. Go to sleep and miss out on
more of the same?

; Only a very young child like Donny could be
i happy in the world as it was today. Even Carrie had
: crossed the invisible line, though she refused to talk
about the fears that made her look away when cer-
tain words were mentioned.

He smoothed Donny’s hair, trying to reassure
the boy wordlessly untD he could find the words to
explain that a simple problem like going to bed
should not upset either one of them.

The picture on the television screen faded to
gray. The sound was cut off in the middle of a
familiar commercial jingle.

“Daddy, the program wasn’t over. Is the set
broken?’’ Carrie’s voice had an edge to it.

Judy ran in from the kitchen wiping her hands
on a towel. “What’s happening? Is it a bulletin?’’

Before John could say that he didn’t know, a
new picture formed on the screen. But not really
a new picture. It was of a care-worn man behind
a desk, the same man they had seen all too often in
the past year announcing that the international
situation had taken a turn for the worse and then
again, worse yet.

John reached out for the remote control and
turned off the set before the man could speak.

“Daddy-”

“Oh, John, do you think you should? He might
; tell US-”

I “Tell us what?” he asked harshly. “The truth?

With things going the way they are do you think
he’d dare tell us the truth?” I

This was no good. He was scaring his wife and I
children. He was scaring himself. Sometimes a coun- 1
; try had to fight for justice the same as a man did. j

: They had no choice about this coming war. It was ;

: necessary. But he would not let it intrude here and
; now. In this place there would b(; an island of tern- |

I porary peace. j

] He took a deep breath and hoped his smile ’
wasn’t as sickly as it felt. “Anyway, who wants to i

■ listen to a dumb old President when there are more |

: interesting things to do?” he asked his daughter. |

Carrie rewarded him with the ghost of a smile. ^

; It didn’t help at all to realize that at the mo- |
; ment he’d turned off the set he’d been thinking that ;
if this was really it, Judy would loe getting a phone \
[ call any minute now ordering her to report to her job i
i at the neighborhood shelter. He hadn’t managed to |

' shut an 3 rthing out, hadn’t made a conscious decision ;
for suicide— though considering that the shelters ,
j; were still incompletely furnished, incompletely .
I; stocked, and some of them only half-built, that deci- |
: sion might be the only rational one a man with a i
family could make. i

“Judy, it’s almost bedtime. Why don’t you fix i
some sugar bread for the kids while I start thinking \
\ of a story to tell?”

j His wife and daughter seemed to relax and
I John knew he had done the right thing. Hold on to
the routine. It spelled security.

The telephone didn’t ring. Yet.

He held Donny on his lap and wished the boy
would lean back and put his head down. It had been ;
a long, hard day for everyone and tomorrow would |
i be worse. If Donny would just relax for a few ;
! minutes his sleepiness would catch up with him and j
1 there’d be no more nonsense about not going to bed. I
j Sugar bread, he thought, feeling depressed. It |
I was funny how different things symbolized depriva-
j tion for different people. For some it was the short-
i age of meat or buying a patch kit for soles instead of
j buying new shoes. For John it ^vas sugar bread, a
I slice of bread thinly spread with margarine, even ,
! more thinly sprinkled with sugar. John’s father had
I been unemployed most of his life and store-bought

■ treats were too expensive. As a child he hadn’t mind-
ed, hadn’t missed what he’d never known. He’d liked

I sugar bread. But it was different now. He had a
! good job. He ought to be able to give his children
something better. Only you can’t ;pve them what you
can’t find.

He understood that the shelters had to be
stocked. Their only chance for survival from radia-
tion, chemicals, and manmade, man-seeded plagues
lay in the shelters, and a shelter was useless if peo-
ple in them starved to death before it was safe to
come out.

It used to be a nightly ritual. Donny and Car-

46

rie would have some kind of treat while John told
them a story. It Avas something they all enjoyed, a
time to be togeth(jr, and having a few cookies or a
couple of pieces of candy had been part of it.

John had remembered sugar bread when
stocks at the supermarkets began to get low. Carrie
said she loved it. Donny ate it when it was given to
him, but John guessed he didn’t really like it. His
favorite story was Hansel and Gretel and he made
John describe th<; witch’s house over and over.
Sometimes when he was playing by himself John
would hear him singing to himself, “Peanut butter
cookies and chocolate bars and jelly beans and malt
balls and gumdrops,’’ repeating the words like a
magical chant. V/hen that happened, John felt
depressed.

There hadn’t been any candy or cookies on the
supermarket shelvtis in almost a year. Where had the
things disappeared to? They couldn’t all have been
sent to the shelters.

As a matter of fact they hadn’t been. Not
everything. Just last week John had been able to get
a few jelly beans. It was one of the few dishonest
things he’d ever done in his life and he didn’t like to
think about it. It made him feel ashamed. Fright-
ened, too. After several sleepless nights he’d man-
aged to put it right out of his mind. It could have
resisted in something horrible but it hadn’t. His
family was safe and he’d never be tempted again.

John looked down at his son. Donny was still
tense, ready for a battle.

“You still haven’t told me why you don’t want
to go to sleep,” he said, drawing the boy closer.

“If I go to sleep the bears will come and eat

me.”

“What bears?” John asked, laughing. “There
aren’t any bears in the city. Listen, do you think I’d
let anything get in here and hurt you? Haven’t I
I always taken care of you?”

Donny had started to shiver. “These bears are
different. 'They’re not in the city. They’re in the
place I go when I go to sleep. They eat people. I’ve
seen them!”

John rubbed at the frown line between his
eyebrows. He really wasn’t in the mood for this sort
of thing tonight. He had no patience, no reassuring
words to offer. All he wanted was an evening with
his family before he had to face tomorrow’s fears
and problems. Was that too much to ask?

Judy came back with two paper napkins hold-
ing slices of sugar bread. Carrie reached for hers but
before she bit into it she gave her brother a stern
look.

“You just had a bad dream,” she told him.
“Dreams aren’t real. They can’t hurt you. Only
babies are afraid of things in dreams.”

John smiled at her. Poor Carrie. She wasn’t
much more than a baby herself and scared of
things-real things— she didn’t understand. But she

was trying to help.

Donny started to cry, shaking his head so hard
that his tears slid in crooked trails down his cheeks.
“It’s not just a dream! They’re real bears— real
teeth— they hurt—”

“Donny,” Judy said tenderly, reaching out to
pick him up from John’s lap.

But Donny misimderstood. He slid down from
John’s lap and backed away. “No! I won’t go to bed.
Won’t go to sleep! Won’t let the bears eat me!”

Coming on top of all his other worries it was
too much. John’s temper snapped. He grabbed
Donny, threw him across his lap, and gave him a few
whacks on the bottom. 'The boy’s screams were shrill
and filled with terror. John continued to hit him,
harder than he should have, almost in tears himself
from his own pain, the inner pain that intensified
with every blow, every scream. The pain of guilt for
this and every other sin he’d ever committed against
his family.

At last he stopped, frightened by his own
anger. Donny was only sobbing now. Carrie and
even Judy were looking at him, white-faced, as if he
had turned into some kind of monster. Maybe he
had.

Donny was sobbing now. Carrie and Judy
were looking at Jojin, white-faced, as if
he had turned into some kind of monster.
Maybe he had.

Without a word, without the usual hugs and
kisses that followed punishment, John carried Donny
to bed. The only peace any of them would get to-
night was after he’d cried himself to sleep. Which he
did after a very long while. John sat on the floor
beside Donny’s bed until the crying stopped, not sure
whether he was there to comfort his son or to punish
himself.

When he came out of the children’s bedroom
Carrie managed to kiss him good night without ever
really looking at him. Judy pleaded a headache and
went to bed a few minutes later. John wanted to ask
her to stay and keep him company, but he felt he’d
used up his privileges for one night. He had the quiet
he’d wanted, but not the peace. He was wide awake
now, last week’s worry gnawing at him like a
stomach full of rats.

hat damn.job of his! If only he didn’t have to
look at those guys every day— the traitors,
the murderers, the rapists. Many of them
had never held an honest job, never gave a thought
to their responsibilities to family and country. They’d
been convicted of the worst crimes, would have been
in prison for the rest of their lives if it hadn’t been
for this government testing program.

47

Nighthears

Criminals should be punished, not pampered.
John had seen how they lived when he had to escort
a group from wards to testing areas. Nothing was
too good for them. They had the best food, liquor, no
work to do, just lie on soft beds all day playing cards
or watching movies. Once in a while they had to take
a pill or test a nasal spray.

All that for criminals, while honest citizens
were working double time, neglecting their families,
making do and doing without, so the country’s
resources could be diverted to the shelters. Sure,
there was a little risk for the volunteers, but how
bad could it be? His country wouldn’t use inhumane
weapons even in a war. Maybe some new flu viruses,
some drugs to make people sleep, stuff like that. Of
course a lot of the volunteers died, but that’s what
the testing program was for, so the scientists could
learn to use these weapons effectively. The prisoners
weren’t allowed to suffer.

Judy ran out of the children’s bedroom.
Donny was screaming and screaming,
inhuman, frightening sounds.

Some garbled words about bears.

And he didn’t believe a word of the stories he
heard about what went on in the locked wards.

Jeeze, he was sweating. One of the kids must
have been fooling around with the thermostat again.
Hot in here. Donny must be feeling it too, because
he was whimpering in his sleep. John promised
himself he’d get up and check that thermostat in a
minute or two.

If there had been anything out of the ordinary
he would have gone to the lab and told them what
he’d done. By God, he would have! It was his family
after all. He’d always been the kind of man who
thought of his family before he thought about
himself.

The telephone rang.

As if the sound had triggered him, Donny
began to scream again.

It was strange. He heard the sounds. He knew
what they were. He knew each sound should have
told him to do something. But somehow the message
got lost on the way from ear to brain.

And besides, he had something so very much
more important to figure out.

Why had he done such a stupid thing? All this
worry and sleeplessness over a handful of goddamn
jelly beans. He knew guys who regularly smuggled
out steaks and roasts and fresh fruit and full bottles
of liquor, stuff you couldn’t find in the stores
anymore. And there was a certain satisfaction in tak-
ing something away from those pampered criminals.
48

John had warned the guys he woi-ked with that they |
were asking for trouble, but he couldn’t blame them, j
There was something wrong when scum lived better j
than honest people. |

Why was he getting all this upset over a few j
jelly beans? Worrying over nothing. 'They’d just been {
sitting there, a whole bowl of them on a bedside j
table. Out in the open. Like an invitation. I

Carrie opened the bedroom door. “Daddy,
you’d better come and look at Donny. His nose is
bleeding.’’

John shook his head at her, not quite sure
what she was saying. It couldn’t be important. He
meant to tell her to get her mother to see to Donny,
but he couldn’t think of the words, couldn’t think of
anything but goddamn jelly beans.

That annoying ringing noise had finally j
stopped. I

Six. There had been six of them, he remem- |
bered. He’d just grabbed them on an impulse when j
i no one was looking. After worrying about them all !
j afternoon he’d been going to throw them away, but j
i then he stopped to talk to the woman at the day care ]
j center and Donny had found them in his jacket |
i pocket. Six brilliantly colored jelly beans, perfectly ;
I shaped promises of sweet crunchiness. Six jelly j
I beans that screamed “Eat me! Eat me!” After that |
; he couldn’t throw them away and disappoint the boy. i
Six. Donny had divided them up. “One for me i
^ and one for Carrie. One for me and one for Carrie. |
, One for me and one for Carrie.” Only, when they j
: got home Carrie very generously had given one of i
i hers to her mother. ,

He’d been really scared then, but he watched j
i them carefully. If there had been anything, a runny i
! nose, sleepiness, anything at all out of the ordinary, ‘

; he would have gone to the lab and told them what :
i he’d done. He would have. Even if it meant having I
j to go to prison himself. But they were all right. He’d |
i watched them carefully for a week now and they j
I were all right! ' i

I Judy ran out of the children’s bedroom. Donny i
I was screaming and screaming, inhuman, frightening
sounds. Some garbled words about bears.

“John!” She tugged at his arm, her eyes
wild. “John, you’ve got to do something. He’s
bleeding— his nose and mouth— the whole hed is
covered with blood! John!”

Was it such a terrible thing, what he’d done? A
few goddamn jelly beans? His kids hadn’t had any in
months. Didn’t they have more I'ight to those jelly
beans than a bunch of pampered criminals? Didn’t a
man have a right, an obligation to take care of his
family?

Judy was at the phone now, trying to dial,
knocking it to the floor. Donny was screaming.
Carrie was staring at John, whimpering softly.

Six goddamn jelly beans. Didn’t a man have a
right? iS

The Hunger photos ©1982 by United Artists Corp.

T Z

SCR

REVIEW

x:be buNQeR

CAN A THREE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD MAN FIND HAPPINESS WITH
A SIX-THOUSAND-YEAR-OLD WOMAN? DAVID BOWIE AND CATHERINE DENEUVE
ARE ABOUT TO REVEAL THE ANSWER. JAMES VERNIERE REPORTS.

he vampire is one of the most endur

B ing figures in popular myth. Although
he has appeared in one form or
another in the legends of primitive cultures,
he is perhaps best known to us in the person
of Count Dracula, Bram Stoker’s aristocratic
Transylvanian, who, in Stoker’s 1897 novel
emigrates to London in search of new victims.
The character has reappeared in countless
films, from F. W. Mumau’s expression
istic classic, Nosferatu (1922), in
which German actor Max von
Schreck played the role of Count
Orlock (Mumau’s scenarist,

Henrick Galeen, changed
the viUain’s name and the
setting but generally
lifted from Stoker),
through Tod Browning’s
Dramla (1931), with Bela
Lugosi reprising the
part he played on the
Broadway stage, to the
Hammer series, which
began with Terence
Fisher’s wonderfully
erotic Horror of
Draada (1957), star-
ring Christopher Lee
as the bloodthirsty
Prince of Darkness.

In his modem incar-
nation the vampire is
usually more than
just an animated
corpse. He is a
romantic figure, a
youthful, immortal
superman doomed to
wander the earth in
search of human prey.

This is the type of creature
we will encounter in Tony
Scott’s Tfie Hunger, the latest
cinematic variation on the
vampire theme.

The Hunger is a vampire film
with a few twists. First, the
blood-obsessed creature in Scott’s
film is not a coimt in an opera
cape, but a beautiful woman
named Miriam (Catherine
Deneuve) who lives in a town
house on Manhattan’s posh East
Side. Although we are perhaps
more accustomed to male

vampires preying on female victims,
there is considerabk; precedent in film
for female vampires, perhaps established
with Lambert Hillyer’s stylish Dracula ’s
Daughter (1936), with Gloria Holden as
the Count’s ill-fated offspring. More
recently, filmmakers have taken a cue
from nineteentli-century author J.
Sheridan LeFanu, whose classic novelette
“Carmilla” established the theme of the
destructive, lesbian vampire in English
literature. Thus, we’ve had films like
Roy Ward Baker’s The Vampire
Lovers (1971) and Jimmy
Songster’s Lvist for a Vampire
(1971). ’The legend of Elizabeth
Bathoiy, the “Bloody
Countess’’ of sixteenth-
century^ Hungaiy, has also
inspired several female
vampire films, including
Hany Kumel’s Daughter
of Darkness (1971), with
French actress Delphine
Seyrig in the title role,
and Peter Sasdy’s
Countess Dracula (1972),
with Ingrid Pitt as the
blood-bathing aristocrat.
A second twist in The
Hunger is its strong, even
kinky, sexual content
(although this, too, is not
unprec^ented, as anyone
familial- with the Hammer
films can attest). Miriam
and her mortal lover, John
Blaylock (pop star David
Bowie), hunger for more than
mere blood. 'Their victims are
sexual partners whose death pro-
vides fre ultimate orgasm. In the
story, Miriam and John are
portrayed as purely sensual
creatures, delighting only in the
passion they share for each other
and in the fatal couplings they force
upon their victims. In The Hunger
sex is the ne plus ultra: a
celebration of the moment pro-
longed for an eternity.
The vampire myth as a
sexual allegory is nothing new.
Bram Stoker’s novel focuses on the
obsessive desire the Count feels for
the innocent Mina Harker, and the

50

David Bowie and Catherine Deneuve ploy a couple known to the modem world as Miriam and John
Blaylock. She Is an eons-dd vampire-like being, he the latest in a series of mortal lovers she's had over
the ages, each of whom has enjoyed a three-hundred-year lifespan through infusions of her blood.
Together, in various disguises, the two seek out human prey. «

John Blaylock has a problem. Having reached the
limit of his artificially induced longevity, he now finds
himself aging at a rapid rate. In desperation, he
visits the lab of gerontologist Sarah Roberts (Susan
Sarandon), lined with dozens of cages.

—

book also has undercurrents of cannibalism and bestiality,
especially in the portrait of the lunatic Renfield. The vam-
pire in his incarnation in Western culture has rejected eter-
nal life in heaven and the blood of Christ (in fact, Christian
talismans ref)el the vampire) in favor of an eternal life of ap-
petite, perpetuated by the blood of mortals. He is a per-
sonification of the id, that force that desires only to feed, to
survive, and to copulate.

Despite the connections between the vampire myth
and the characters in The Hunger, no mention of the word
“vampire” appears in the film’s script, apparently in an at-
tempt to avoid the label “horror film,”which the filmmakers
fear is indicative of B-movies and sleazy exploitation. (This
strategy recalls the efforts of Paul Schrader, who recently
updated the Val Lewton-Jacques Tourneur film. Cat People,
to avoid such a label.) “Don’t call this a vampire movie,”
Richard Shepherd, the producer of The Hunger, is reported
to have said. “But if you must, then this is the classic one.
We wanted today’s version of Garbo and Leslie Howard,
and we have them in Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie.”

The Hunger bears another resemblance to Cat People.
In both films we are presented with ordinary-looking people
who are actually members of an ancient race who must feed
on humans to survive. In The Hunger Miriam is such a
creature, one of the last descendants of a race of beings,
part human, part alien, who possessed the secret of eternal
life. Miriam is an exquisite, ageless woman who, through a
transfusion of her blood into the veins of a human, can pro-
long the human’s youth and life for centuries. Thus, over the

51

While waiting to see Dr. Roberts, Blaylock does some snooping,
and discovers an immobilized rhesus monkey with a problem
similar to his own.

Too busy to talk with Blaylock, Dr. Roberts ser
she sees him again after several hours, she
many years.

ages, Miriam has taken on a series of human lovers, and
together she and her lovers satisfy their “hunger” by
feeding on unsuspecting mortals. The problem in The
Hunger is that Miriam’s latest lover, John, has reached the
limit of his artificially induced longevity, and he’s begun
^ .to age at an accelerated rate. His attempt to reverse the
process and Miriam’s attempt to replace him with a new
paramour are the focus of the film’s plot.

Although The Hunger is director Tony Scott’s first
feature film, he has considerable experience as a director of
documentaries and television commercials. Scott— who, like
his brother, director Ridley Scott (Alien, Blade Runner),
studied painting and art before taking up filmmaking
—teamed with producer Richard Shepherd and cinemato-
grapher Stephen Goldblatt (Outland) to film this adaptation
of a novel by Whitley Streiber (Wolfen).

VISIONS

Max Schreck, more ratlike
than batlike, carried coffins
with him wherever he went
In F. W. MurrKJu’s 1922 silent,
Nosferatu. The “German
film was based closely on
Bram Stoker's Dracula, but
the title was changed for
copyright reasons; the
scene was switched to
Bremen, and Schreck’s
Carpathian nobleman be-
came "Count Orlock."

Lon Chaney ployed a
Scotland Yard detective
moonlighting as a vampire
—a hoax designed to trap
a killer— in the 1927 silent,
London After Midnight,
directed by Tod Browning,
who, untii Chaney's death
in 1930, hod planned to
use him in Dracula.

Hungarian actor Bela
Lugosi, who'd played the
role on stage, became
Browning's Dracula— ar*d
the screen's most famous
vampire— in 1931 (a year
that also saw the release
of Frankenstein) Thanks to
typecasting and his own
limitations as an actor
(including, till the end, a
weak command of Erv
gllsh), Lugosi's career soon
degenerated Into a sorSs
of grade-B melodramas,
cameos, and, at his death
In 1956

the notorious Plan
Nine from Outer SfKice
(released in 1958),' an
Edward D. Weed jltra-
cheapie combining /om-
pires and UFOs. TV h-xror-
show hostess Vampira
(above) appeared bs a
reanimated corjDse, Cind—
os lovers of Bad Cir'STha
enjoy reminding [us—
Wood 's wife's chlropfiqctor
■ stood in for the deceased
LugosL concealing his face
behind his cape.

John Carradloe, v'
played Drocula In the ;
House of Frankenste^
another veteran tii^i
vampire ams (and,5^-
Dante's werewB# epit
Howling) This rrug .it
comes frem a
masterpiece caSsd fii
the KkJ vs. Dracula. .

The screenplay by Ivan Davis and Michael Thomas is
lot typical of a genre film. There are no red-eyed fanged
nonsters in The Hunger. Indeed, the filmmakers piortray
heir protagonists as extraordinarily refined creatures,
Dvers of fine art and music and connoisseurs of sex.

One of the problems The Hunger may face is, ironical-
\f, a result of the filmmakers’ scrupulous avoidance of the
erm “vampire.” The vampire brings with him all the

mythic baggie he has accumulated over the years. We
know his habits, his strengths, and his weaknesses. We have
seen him in films, read him in fiction, and whispered his
name as we lie in our beds in the dark. He is a known quanti-
ty, and we do not need to suspend our disbelief very far to
believe in him. In The Hunger, however, Miriam is merely
described as the last descendant of an alien race. Is she a
vampire? The writers have been very coy on this subject.

^ACES ARE FAMHiW^AND SO ARE THE FANGS— IN THIS GALLERY
^^'’§HOULS WHO T/^TED BLOOD ONSCREEN . . . AND LIKED IT,

Klaus Kinski went the
Schreck route in Werner
Herzog's 1979 Nosferatu,
the Vampyre, a remake
of the Mumau classic. As
in the earlier film, the
spread of vampirism was
set amid the horrors of the
Block Plague.

In the 1979 Dracuia,
directed by John Bodhom,
Frank Langeiia ptoyed the
vampire os a classic
Byronic vilialn. Unfortunate-
ly, his romantic appeal
was more than a match
for the good guys in the
cast, including Laurence
Olivier as Dr. Von Heising.

Christopher Lee. Hommer
Studios’ popular vampire,
has pkxyed the role more
often than anyone alive,
from 1958’s The Horror of
Dracuia though 197 3's
Satanic Rites of Dracuia
(also known as Dracuia Is ,
Dead ar>d Well and Uving
In London). It's clear fhat
os a fantasy-film arche-
type, the vampire is dead
and very well Indeed.

I to the patients’ lounge to wait. When
eked to discover that he has aged

In an attempt to recruit the doctor as her next lover, Miriam
Infects her with her own alien blood. Soon showing the effects of
such contact, the woman is both fascinated and repulsed at the
prospect of becoming one of the living dead.

'Mcrynie nfti'H'iks
in ■a67's Wb
kbmpfre ffiffstt,
dira«tor Roman
ate stered This
itrmpherfe speof
'hes dis-
Intiadueed us to
dfffKBBxupl vampire
^ bltlr^ men and
vompire unaf-

djoy 1

InofW Pin had the title
fSle in 1970’s Countess
Dracuia, based on the
gruesome career of the
Hungcjrian countess Elizch
beth Bathory, who's said
to have kept her youth—
or -tried t o — by bo thing in
the blood of young prtsr
Pitt almost ploved herself,
a h©r:of-film star, in 197rs
The House that Dripped
Blood written by Robert
Bloch.

rbe buNQeK

4

Because of this, and the fact that they fail to provide enough
background to support a new myth, the plot of the film
seems arbitrary. The subplot involving Miriam’s lust for a
beautiful gerontologist (played by Susan Sarandon) and the
film’s twist ending may suffer especially from this credi-
bility gap.

In keeping with the film’s supernatural elements, Tfw
Hunger contains a number of special makeup effects created
by the recognized master of the form, Dick Smith. In addi-
tion to supplying the effects for a series of brutal murders
• -performed by Miriam and John Mth the razor-edged golden
ankhs they wear around their necks. Smith took on the
major makeup task of aging David Bowie from a youthful
thirty to an incredible two hundred.

“I suppose,” said Smith in a recent interview, “that
it’s easiest to compare my work on David Bowie to the work
I did on Dustin Hoffman in Little Big Man. But The Hunger
was an intriguing assignment because it involved several
different aspects of the makeup field. First was a series of
aging makeups on Bowie that are based on established tech-
niques with a few improvements in adhesives and paints.
The second category involved making head-to-toe rubber
suits for seven mummy-like creatures which were similar
to the suits made for Altered States. ”

The mummy-like creatures designed by Smith (whose
credits include The Exorcist, Taxi Driver, and Ghost Story)
and associate Carl Fullerton are used in the film to depict
the living, physical remains of Miriam’s previous lovers, all
of whom she keeps in boxes locked up in the attic. Like
Tithonus, the figure in Greek mythology who was granted
eternal life but not eternal youth, Miriam’s former lovers
live on in a hideous state of decrepitude.

“The final aspect of the special makeup effects,” add-
ed Smith, “was that Catherine Deneuve had to go through a
transformation too, but we had to use a different technique
for her change. We used dummies instead of prosthetics or
body suits.”

To design the body suits. Smith did research on the
mummies of Guanajuato, Mexico (which are featured in
the opening shots of Werner Herzog’s recent remake of
Nosferatu). “The research was easy,” said Smith, “because
I’d had photos of the mummies of Guanajuato in my files for
years. They were exactly what we wanted because they’re
grotesque and yet they’re human.”

Mummies, ancient races, gerontologists, chamber
music, vicious murders— T/ic Hunger is quite a mix. The
success of the film will depend on how skillfully Tony Scott
weaves this vampiric tale of sex, death, and art. The
presence of Catherine Deneuve, David Bowie, and Susan
Sarandon should lure more than the usual horror film fans.
Whether they go home satisfied or still hungry remains to
be seen. iS
54

At a decadent New Wave discotheque in the
Hamptons, Miriam and John spot two potentiai
victims on the dance floor and make plans to
seduce them— a ritual they have enacted, in
various guises and in various ballrooms, over the
centuries.

Later, at Miriam’s country home, the two pair
off with their intended prey. Miriam, in the
living room, strikes an erotic pose for the male
(John Stephen Hill), who will die after making
love to her.

At that same moment, in the kitchen, John is
toying with the female (Ann Magnuson), who is
about to become another victim of the hunger.

Illustrations by Annie Alleman

WITH THE SPIELBERG-LANDIS CO-PRODUCTION
NEARING RELEASE, HERE'S A NEVER-BEFORE-PUBLISHED LOOK
AT THE TWILIGHT ZONE FILM THAT SERLING HIMSELF MIGHT HAVE MADE.

Vv

Notbs Tdr a

Twilight Zone

Movie

BY ROD SERLING

A Prefatory Word from Carol Serling:

For years Rod planned to make a theatrical Twilight
Zone. He never had the time to put it all together, but at
one point he submitted the following proposal to some
higher Hollywood power:

This movie will be a trilogy, shot in black & white
for a budget of under a million dollars. The stories
are separate and distinct but have a background
thread that moves one into the other. Additionally,
to emphasize the connection to the popular tv
series. I would "host" this motion picture in much
the same manner as the tv series operated. Only
two of the three episodes are touched upon in this
very brief resume ...

The stories referred to here— an ex-Nazi on the run and a
blind woman (played by Joan Crawford) who finds sight
for a few brief moments— turned up later as the pilot for
Nighf Gallery.

At some later date, Rod sent out another memo along
with- a story about an alien who lands on earth and is

hounded and hunted by adults and befriended by a child.
(Sound familiar, E.T.?)

And there were more ideas, more stories filed under
Twilight Zone— The Movie. One bears a fleeting
resemblance to a segment now being shot as part of the
Spielberg-Landis film, anofher tells of a little man who
meets a warlock, and there's space travel, time travel, and
more. (The latter ended up as an Invin Allen movie called
The Time Travelers.) Included here are three of the others,
accompanied by the following disclaimer from Rod:

The following are the bare bones of a mofion
picture idea. There has been no attempt made to
probe individual scenes and people. This is simply
a skeletal approach to indicate a conception, a
general direction, and a basic theme. The writer
visualizes this as an exercise in tension. . . . The
scenes here are broad-stroked and perhaps just lie
there, making for somewhat .difficult reading, but
they do contain innately exciting moments—
excitement that would only show up in a
screenplay. So after this defensive preface, the
following Is a very general and oversimplified
story line.

56

I.

U p in the September night hovered a silver-white moon. Seymour
Coperthwaite took brief note of it as he walked out of the New
York Mets’ dugout and took a sauntering, strolling, devil-may-care
walk toward home plate. He carried one bat. Other men— lesser
men— swung two or three bats. Other men— lesser men— fiddled with
trouser belts, kicked mud off cleats, furiously rubbed rosin bags to dry
their hands. But not Sejroour Coperthwaite. He needed none of the
rituals, none of the idiotic liturgy that marked the normal baseball player’s
obeisance to the nerves and tensions of the sport. He was a man with a
job to do. And the job was at home plate.

He carried his single bat (the heaviest in the National League) to
the private little arena v^rhere the batter engaged in a moment of truth
with the pitcher. He planted his two muscle-rippling legs into the dirt
(the most muscular legs in the National League) and gazed out like a
calm eagle toward the pitcher’s mound. A smile played on his lips, then
he let his eyes scan the outfield (he had the best eyesight in the
National League).

Los Angelas Dodgers— big deal! Look at Schofield on third. Plays
much too close to the bag. Leaves a space you could drive a locomotive
through. I might pull to the left and get it right past him. Or look at
Willie Davis way out on the track. He krums I have power. He’s scared
to death. I could just dump it over second. Or Parker at first, playing
way the hell back. A bunt along first. Drag it. That would squeeze one
over and we could take it here in the ninth. When you get a hundred-
and-fifty-thousand-a-year salary, you have to do the unexpected. Ruth
could strike out on occasion. DiMaggio could even pull a rock and
ground into the double play. But that’s not what they expect of Seymour
Coperthivaite. Seymour Coperthwaite leading the League in home runs,
runs batted in, batting average, and everything else. No, sir! I, Seymour
Coperthwaite, will do the unexpected. I will fake a bunt, and on the next
pitch Pll belt it. Pll hammer it. Pll show ’em. A long ball that’ll break
it up and send the Dodgers back to the smog with their tails between
their legs. I, Seymour Caperthwaite, the Adonis— a maehine of muscle
and sinew— perfect in its coordination, its power, its capacity to
outthink and outplay any other team or any other man on any other
team. Seymour Coperthwaite of the New York Mets, ready to bring a
National League pennant back to the boroughs far the first time in
eleven years.

The shining platinum moon stared down from its sky perch on
Shea Stadium and on the figure of Seymour Coperthwaite standing at
home plate. There was a stillness throughout the vast multitiered arena.
The only sound was of an errant wind, a distant aircraft landing at
LaGuardia, and the sound of Seymour Coperthwaite’s breathing. The
New York Mets were playing at St. Louis that night. The Los Angeles
Dodgers had an off day and were out on the West Coast. There was
no one in Shea Stadium except Seymour Coperthwaite.

Other men— lesser men— were at home and hearth. But Seymour
Coperthwaite, a fifteen-year veteran in the hot dog concession, was no
dreamless suburbanite. He had verve and imagination, and on the
nights that his beloved Mets were out of town, he would rise to his full
five-foot-six, hitch up his little pot belly, and make believe he was
winning a pennant for the club. He would wander across the outfield
making shoestring catches of imaginary fly balls or fling himself against
the center-field fence, robbing the Dodgers of the home run or the
Cardinals of a triple or ending the game spectacularly, snaring one of
Willie Mays’s phantom screams of the phantom crowd calling his name.
And then he would walk to home plate, tip his cap to the invisible
wraiths who screamed his name, and belt one for God, country, the city
of New York, and the Mets. He was not Seymour Coperthwaite, a
bandy-legged, pot-bellied, forty-six-year-old schlep. He was Coperthwaite
of the Mets. He was the man among men. An Adonis, that’s what he
was— an Adonis.

“Coperthwaite, Coperthwaite, Coperthwaite,” the soundless voices

roared from the evanescent throats— and Coperthwaite tipped his cap.

“Coperthwaite! — Schmuck! How many times I gotta tell you that
you ain’t allowed in here when the team’s not playin’? How many
times, schmuck? You want I should run you in now? Or will you go
home awready?” The voice was that of Bull Walsh, one of the stadium
guards who wore a badge and had no imagination. He shined his
flashlight through the wire mesh of the screen behind home plate,
watching Coperthwaite just before he pointed to left field to announce
to the screaming mob that that’s where he would park the pitch a la
George Herman Ruth.

“You hear me, schmuck? Off the field. I mean right now off the

field.”

The grandeur dissolved. The crowd noises were cut off. The
cheering throng disappeared and became forty-eight thousand empty
seats. The billion-powered incandescent lights over the field went black.
And there was only the moon and Seymour Coperthwaite, sparse
shoulders slumped as he turned disconsolately to face the dream killer
with the badge, shedding his batting average, his eagle eyes, and his
thoughtful and brave smile to become once again one of the hot dog
men on an off night. ^

T he Brockman mansion is the last of its kind— a dark, cheerless
twenty-room brownstone on Beekman Street. It’s an unkempt
museum of imcomfortable straight-backed chairs and overstuffed
sofas, its paneled walls lusterless as if polished by darkness, reflecting
the somber shadows of the house itself.

And as for the Brockman clan . . . There is Diane Brockman,
Selena’s niece, in her mid- twenties: a long-legged miniskirted bitch in
heat who undulates rather than walks, as if keeping time to some
perpetual music, wiggling invitationally to an unseen audience.

Her mother, Selena’s sister, is a leathery-faced crone who
vegetates in a chair, staring out at the street. Does she think? Does
she contemplate? The vacant eyes and the silent mouth offer no clues,
only an occasional blink and twitch to verify the fact that she still
lives— just a windowpane away from the world outside.

There is Orville, a combination handyman and resident village
idiot who tends the furnace and empties the rat traps. His origin is
uncertain; all that is known is that he was an orphan boy picked up by
Selena thirty years before in a spasm of the same kind of compassion
that allowed Chinese immigrants to come over as cooks for lumber
camps.

And there is Selena herself, the grande dame of the menagerie,
who lies in her four-poster in an inch-by-inch battle with death, trying
somehow to reach a compromise instead of a capitulation, but each
morning more and more hard-pressed to eke strength out of the frail,
wasting seventy-five-year-old body, the used-up lungs, the once regal,
impervious spirit that now betrays her as she gi-adually slips away.

A young internist. Dr. Dichter, makes sporadic visits to the
house. House calls aren’t his thing, and the Brockmans aren’t his kind
of people, but a doctor father and a doctor grandfather— both of whom
tended to this group— carry the obligation across the dynasty. So he
arrives periodically with black bag, stethoscope, pressure taker, and
thermometer to go through the hopeless motions. He writes out the
prescriptions to ease a little of the pain, but little else. And as always,
he takes huge, deep gulps of fresh air whenevei- he leaves the house,
because there’s something about the place and its people that beckons
to something worse than death.

In a small Ohio town is the last known living relative of the
Brockmans. Her name is Deborah; she’s twenty years old and a
registered nurse. She receives a long distance phone call from Cousin
Diane announcing the impending death of Aunt Selena, and the
conversation is lightly spattered with suggestions of legacies contingent
on loyalties.

Debbie Brockman, orphaned since her early, teens, is a bright,
lovely, very normal young woman; there is nothing of the teenage ’
virgin about her or the insulated ingenuousness of a novitiate nun. But
her life has been spent within walking distance of a village drug store,
and there is something fresh, new, and challenging about visiting the ’
fabled relatives, spoken of throughout her lifetime in the whispered
cadence used to describe “other kinds of people.”

So Debbie goes to New York and is welcomed into the Brockman
mansion almost as a prodigal returned.

It takes her about a few hours to feel the same distaste for place
and people that Dr, Dichter, during an early acquaintance walk, shares
with her. In the steel ball-bearing eyes of Selena Brockman is an
unholy clutching of life that transcends either science or faith. In
Diane, there is a quality of uncommon lust— lust that transcends the
flesh and turns unspokenly inward toward something far more morbid
and far less earthly. And as to the vacant Martha, Diane’s mother, who
sits at her accustomed place by the window, looking out, unseeing, at
traffic and people far more flesh and blood than she— even this woman
carries with her her own special enigma.

It begins with something as small and apparently insignificant as
a liver spot-a tiny brown circular discoloration on the back of one of
Deborah’s hands. She mentions it in pssing to Dr. Dichter, and it
would probably have gone both unnoticed and even unchecked had it.
not been simply the opening gambit to an appalling, nightmarish game
that defies logic, reality, and even sanity. Because g;radually, moment
by moment, Selena begins to take on strength. The heartbeat is firmer
and more regular, the chest pains less convulsive and frequent, the
pulse stronger and steadier.

But as Selena grows stronger— incredibly, inexplicably— something
begins to happen to Deborah. It is her heart that begins to skip beats,
her chest that begins to emit pain, her once firm, strong young hands
that take on the palsied, quaking quality of an old woman. First there
are just symptomatic suggestions, but gradually, very gradually, the
changes become physically perceptible. We are watching a hellish
exchange taking place between a dying, ancient harridan and a young
woman some witch s contract defiant of root or reason, but happening
with a deadly certainty.

Dichter admits Deborah into a hospital for a series of tests. They
run the gamut of almost every known scientific device that could
conceivably explain the premature aging process which is visibly turning
a young woman into a dying old one.

Dichter goes to the Brockman house and examines Selena
Brockman, who now sits up in bed, bright-eyed, clear-colored, drawing
on some new hidden stren^h and energy that defies any kind of logic
or precedent. When Dichter inferentially suggests the relationship, or at
least the coincidence, of Selena’s recovery with Deborah’s incredible
diminishment, the conversation is shunted off, both by Selena and an
ever-present Diane.

Ultimately it is Orville, the semi-demented handyman, who
provides the first in a s€!ries of chilling clues. Orville is a great picture
looker. He loves running grimy fingers over illustrations, pointing out

eves noses, and limbs. Without Diane’s knowledge he takes out an old
photograph book, and Dichter is shown a picture of Diane s mother, the
now vapid Martha, whose world is a static cat-bird seat outside ot a
window. Underneath the photograph is a caption annotating its date
and circumstances. It had been taken on a school picnic some fiffy
years before, and there had been an accident with a runaway horse, a
wagon, and ultimately a kerosene lantern that had exploded. In the
photograph Martha wears a bandage around her left arm covenng the
vestiges of a burn scar. It is later, when Dichter is talking to Diane,
that he suddenly realizes that on the left arm of Diane Brockman is the
thin red remnant of aged scar tissue.

The evidence is presumptive, but gradually takes on torm
throughout the story. The Brockman mansion— the looming dark, ugly
place, so full of shadows and enigmas-possesses an evil that could

never have been guessed at. . „ , , .lu- 4. 4.

Martha, who rocks her life away like a shallowly breathing statue,

is in reality her own daughter, Diane. In this witch s coven the name
of the game is longevity— and the rules of the game defy any sense ol
morality or love. When illness, age and death encroach, this is when
the ancient art of trade takes place.

Dichter, torn apart both by the horror of the discovery and the
potential horror of its ramifications, tries to force Selena to explain the
secret and give Deborah back her own birthright. Violently, Diane tries
to intercede, and in the process it is Orville— stumbling, bumbling,
blockheaded, dim-witted Orville-who becomes the prime mover. He
inadvertently begins a fire which starts to lap away at the ancient
structure.

In the hospital Deborah awakens from a drug-induced sleep to
discover that her faculties are beginning to return — vision, heart action,
stability. As the evil is burned away in the old Beekman place, its
results turn into ashes as well.

Dichter and Deborah survey the charred remnant of the ancient
mansion. Police and firemen are still looking through the remains.
Bodies are brought out. Orville’s is unmistakable. Selena, by virtue of
her bedclothes and the location of the body, is also identified; and poor
old vacant Martha— who else would be found near the window?

Diane’s body is mising. An onlooker saw one screaming woman
leave the house, her clothes afire. The woman had disappeared.

It’s much later . . . many weeks later . . . that, in a faraway
hospital in a distant city, an indigent old woman, suffering massive
burns across body and face, is being treated in a charity ward. Little
hope is held out for her survival, but simple humanity and compassion
dictate at least the effort. But an odd thing: one of the young nurses
attending her is beginning to suffer from what can only be described as
burned scar tissue on the lower half of one of her legs. And oddly
enough ... so very oddly ... the old woman in the bed is showing
just the slightest improvement— on one of her legs.

III.

T his is the story of a woman. It begins quietly and with little sense
of apprehension, with a white-collar secretary winding up a typical
day. There is little to suggest— as she covers her typewriter, takes
a few last-minute notes from her boss, eludes a kind of half-hearted
pinch— that anything out of the ordinary will occur. As a matter of
fact, it is essential that the normality of the girl and her life is
emphasized by way of contrast to what will occur.

She and a girlfriend decide to stop at a bar en route home. While

there, they’re accosted by a couple of ugly drunks. The scene, first
difficult, becomes violent, and a brawl ensues. Our girl is shaken by the
event and decides to go to the mo'/ies, leaving her girlfriend at the
subway stop.

She enters the theater alone and sits down. Initially, her raison
d’etre is to settle down from the emotional inroads made by the bar
episode. She welcomes the darkness and her aloneness. What’s going
on on the screen has no real meaning to her until ... a familiar sound
hits her ears. It’s the voice of her boss, loud and distorted. She looks
up on the screen and there, much bigger than life— inexplicably and
somehow nightmarishly— is herself playing her goodbye scene that took
place just a few hours ago in the office. There she is on the screen
with her employer. The dialogue is identical, the incidents identical
—everything played just as it happened. She lets out a gasp and now
watches with a kind of fatal fascination as the “movie” unfolds. We
watch the screen with her, and we see her leave the office building just
as it actually happened. We see her meet her girlfriend and then go
into the bar, and then we see the violence in the bar re-enacted.

When it reaches its zenith, the girl can stand no more. She rises,
in the near-empty theater, and rushes toward the rear. An usher and
finally an assistant manager tp^ to calm her down as she desperately
tries, with disconnected phrasing— almost gibberish— to explain the
phenomenon. They obviously figure she’s some kind of a nut, try to
:alm her down and get her to leave. She insists that they go back into
the theater with her so that she can prove what’s going on: That on
\h£ screen, in some incredible way, th^ are playing a movie of her life.

They go back into the darkened theater and there, on the screen,
s a cartoon. Both the usher and the assistant manager exchange, a
wise, knowing look and get a policeman to escort her home.

Late at night, in her apartment, she ponders what she now
relieves to have been an illusion brought on by the drinking and the
jmotional scene in the bar. But so shattering has been the “illusion”

;hat she calls up a young man who works in the office and tries to
•elate to him, on the telephone, what has happened. He is disturbed by
;he near-frenzy in her voice and suggests that they have a drink
ogether after work the next day.

And the next day comes— a rather tense, apprehensive day,
ecause the girl cannot shake, nor can she explain, what she now
nows actually did occur. After work she and the young man have a
Irink and she recounts the entire story just as it happened. This is not
n unimaginative guy, but he is somewhat pragmatic. He tries to
xplain to her, in pragmatic terms, what very likely occurred. The
ombination of the violent moment along with a couple of stiff cocktails
rovided a kind of traumatic basis for an illusion. Also, she was
robably tired to be^n with. She accepts this ... or at least allows it

0 end the conversation. She excuses herself and turns down his offer
D be escorted home.

She starts to walk toward the subway station and is probably only
ubconsciously aware of the fact that she deliberately goes out of her
my to arrive on the same street as the theater. She finds herself out

1 front; compulsively, and with a burgeoning fear and apprehension,
he buys a ticket, walks inside, pauses by the doors leading from

Pe lobby to the theater itself— then forces herself to enter the
arkened area.

Oh the screen is the tail end of a newsreel; and as she sits down
lere is an obvious wave of relief. The screen goes dark for just a brief
loment, and then we are looking at the bar with our girl sitting with
le young man. She. stifles a scream as she witnesses a replaying of
le past two hours, exactly as they happened— his dialogue and hers.

The place, the time, the event— all identical, just as they happened.

She bolts from her seat and starts up the aisle, but something
. . . something almost extrasensory forces her to turn before leaving
the darkened theater to look back once again toward the screen. There,
on the screen, is the city street outside; a jeweler’s window next door
to the theater with a clock in it reads “8:30 p.m.” Then, on the screen,
she sees herself leaving the theater, stopping to stare at the clock in
the window; and suddenly the glass shatters, concurrent with an explosive
gunshot. She whirls around and screams as we abruptly cut to her own
scream standing there at the rear of the theater.

In run the usher and, with him, the assistant manager. They are
torn between their concern and also no little impatience that of all the
theaters in that town, this nut has to pick theirs, because concurrent
with their reaching her, on the screen,^ are the opening credits of a big
Hollywood movie— terribly normal, terribly matter-of-fact. They take her
to the office, try to calm her down, and ultimately send her home.

She goes out into the street, and her attention is immediately
captured by the jewelry store window. She moves over to it and stares
at the clock inside the window. It reads “8:30 p.m.’’ Suddenly the glass
shatters; she whirls around, screaming. We see a guy running down the
street, chased by another man firing a pistol and screaming something
about “You can’t break up my family,’’ etc. A police car screams into
the scene while the girl runs down the street as if trying to escape a
nightmare.

In her apartment, our girl is being attended by a doctor while her
young man waits nervously in the living room. The doctor gives her a
sedative and talks soothingly of the very common aftereffects of overwork
and subconscious tensions. He talks somewhat obliquely of psychiatric
help, then walks out into the living room, tells the young man that
she’ll be going to sleep soon and that there’s no need to wait.

Early in the morning, the girl awakes. She tosses and turns
fitfully, then compulsively rises and dresses. Minutes later she’s back at
the movie house; it’s a round-the-clock theater. And again she forces
herself against both will and judgment to buy a ticket and re-enter the
theater. She takes a seat in the sparsely peopled interior and, with
some kind of sick fascination, forces herself to look up at the screen.

On it is playing her recent examination by the doctor in her own
apartment, and again the same dialogue— the same everything.

By the middle of the scene, she is close to shattering. She leans
across to a big slob chewing away at popcorn, and asks him what it is
that he’s looking at on the screen. The big clod is angry and impatient
and tells her to leave him alone. What the hell does she think he’s
looking at? Her own voice rises nervously and shrilly, and others in the
theater start to shout for her to keep quiet. She forces herself into
silence and again stares at the screen, where we see her image inside
the theater replaying the scene with the popcorn-elating clod just as it
had occurred moments before.

As the “movie” unfolds, she sees herself leaving her seat and
heading up the aisle, entering the lobby and then rushing hurriedly
onto the street, running down empty city streets, almost getting hit by
a taxi as she goes against the light. Finally she arrives at a subway
station, stumbles, almost falls, races down the steps, frantically fishes
for a coin to go through the turnstile, then onto the platform. After a
moment’s wait, she hears the sound of the approaching subway train.
She’s bathed in sweat, obviously suffering a prior knowledge of what
she’s about to do. As the train approaches, she forces herself to move
back away from the platform edge, whirls arouiid so that her hack is to
the tracks; and in this moment we see what she 'sees— a clock,
advertising posters, a blind man with a dog, a couple necking on a

bench, a man sleeping with a newspaper over his face, the tabloid
carrying the date “March 20, 1965.” The subway train sounds louder.
She turns, and just as the train lights flash down the track ahead, she
takes one nightmarish run to the ledge and flings herself in front of
the train, her scream like some incredible siren.

Abruptly we cut back to her in the theater in the aftermath of
what she has seen. She jumps up from her seat, rushes down the aisle,
agonizingly conscious that she is doing precisely what has been ordained
We follow her down the deserted streets exactly as we have seen it
happen on the screen. We see her almost being hit by the taxi and
then stumbling down the steps of the subway station. We see her move
onto the platform of the subway and then back away. But at this moment
she departs from the pattern. Seeing a telephone booth, she races
toward it, hurriedly dials a number. The young man picks up the phone
at the other end. She is close to collapse as she tries to explain to him
where she is. “Please come and help me. Save me from something— God
knows what.”

He does come and save her. He takes her back to her apartment
He tries to reason with her, calm her, as she tells him the story and
recounts everything she has seen on the screen in such incredible
detail, even down to the last moment when she was waiting for the
subway train. She even describes the posters, the blind man and his
log, the couple necking even the man sleeping with the newspaper
)ver his face with the March 20th dateline. He puts her to bed and
;hen, satisfied that she’s sleeping, maintains a vigil through the early
norning, checks her once to see that she is sleeping, then leaves.

The next day at the office, he notes that she does not arrive at
vork, then telephones the doctor to ask that he check her sometime
luring the day. Then he phones her to make sure she’s all right. She
inswers the phone in her apartment and, though nervous and tense,

;he is able to speak rationally. He tries to point out to her that
vhatever the chain of illusion, she has been able to break it. She did
:o to the subway, but at that point, instead of suicide, she phoned him
or survival.

He puts down the jihone and looks disquieted. Something bugs
lim. He cannot articulate. He can’t put his finger on it.

But the disquiet persists all during the day. It builds and becomes
omehow frightening that night while he’s eating his dinner alone. He
hones the doctor, who tells him that the patient is fine-wan, nervous,
ut over the hump. He’s given her an additional sedative, and she
hould be sleeping.

The young man decides to take a walk; he finds himself in front
f the movie house and, in the process, looks at a newspaper stand. And
hen it hits him. The story she recounted as having taken place in the
ubway contained reference to a newspaper spread over a sleeping
lan’s face, and she had mentioned seeing the date of March 20th. That
i tonight’s paper. Incredibly, unbelievably, it must be that the scene
he enacted is yet to take place.

He races toward the subway station, down the steps, but halfway
own he hears a scream and on the platform he sees a young couple, a
lind man and his dog, and the aging drunk who has obviously
ist gotten up from a nap— all staring with horror toward a subway
•ain which has stopped. But it has already done its killing. Police
rrive, etc.

He walks away, trancelike, numbed by horror, and strangely
■compulsively unexplainably, he goes to the movie house, buys a ticket,
id goes in. He looks up on the screen and sees himself entering the
lovie theater. He wants to scream. He opens his mouth, and we-

FADE OUT. fB

On the starting-point of

The Lord of the Rings:

Tolkien seems to have invented a
kind of secular paradise, a lazy man’s
heaven, where people have nothing to
do but smoke their pipes in the twi-
light and gossip about the courting:
couples and next year’s May Fair.
This paradisial quality is underlined :
by the information that Hobbits live a
great deal longer than human beings :
—Bilbo is celebrating his eleventy- i
first birthday. I suspect that it may ;
well be this element, specifically, that i
jarred on Edmund Wilson, who had '
harshly criticized T. S. Eliot for es- i
capism. For there can be no doubt i
that Tolkien himself is emotionally !
committed to this fairy tale picture of i
peaceful rural life; it is not intended j
solely for the children. The nine- i
teenth-century romantics loved ^aint- i
ing this Icind of a picture— it can be j
found in Eichendorf, Morike, Gott-
helf, Tieck, Jean Paul, and probably
derives from Rousseau. The “realist” '
objection to it is no longer a matter ;
of “escapism.” Johnson created a
I “happy valley” in Rasselas, but the ^
prince finds it boring, and wonders ;
about the nature of the strange urge
that makes him want to turn his back
on this drowsy pace and seek out con-
flict and excitement. The evolutionary
urge drives man to seek for intenser
forms of fulfillment, since his basic
urge is for more life, more conscious-
ness, and this contentment has an air
of stagnation that the healthy mind
rejects. (This recognition lies at the
center of my own “outsider theory”:
that there are human beings to whom
comfort means nothing, but whose
happiness consists in following an
obscure inner-drive, an “appetite for
reality.”) And yet one might say, in
defense of Tolkien, that this evolu-
tionary urge is quite clearly symbol-
ized in the urge that all his characters
experience— to seek adventure, to
“go on a journey.” And at the end of
The Return of the King, Frodo does
not “live happy ever after” in Hobbit
land, but has a further journey to
make to “the grey havens.”

Besides, naive or not, this
Rousseau-ist nostalgia is a part of the
charm of the book. The rural com-
forts of the pub at Bree or Tom Bom-
badil’s house provide the right con-
trast to the Barrow Downs with their
walking dead. It is much the same
combination as in the James Bond

novels— plenty of the good things of
life, with a sharp smell of danger in
the air to freshen the appetite.

—Tree by Tolkien (1974) ,

On his children’s ESP:

When my children were babies, I
quickly became aware of the exist-
ence of telepathic links. If I wanted
my daughter to sleep through the ;
ight, I had to take care that I didn’t j
lie awake thinking about her. If I did, j
she woke up. In the case of my son, I |
had to avoid even looking at him if he |
was asleep in his pram. When my ;
wife asked me to see if he was still j
asleep, in the garden or porch, I ;
would tiptoe to the window, glance j
out very quickly, then turn away. If I
lingered, peering at him, he would ^
stir and wake up. This happened so i
unvaryingly during his first year that ;
I came to accept it as natural. After !
the first year, the telephathic links ;
seemed to snap, or at least, to ;
weaken. But when they began to ;
learn to speak, I observed that this '
was again a delicate and intuitive
business— not at all a matter of trial
and error, of learning “object words” ’
and building them up into sentences, i
but something as complex as the '
faculty with which birds build nests.
And again there was a feeling— per-
haps illusory— that the child could
pick up and echo my own thoughts,
or at least respond to them when at-
tempting to express something.

But, among adults at least,
thought-transference must be less
usual than feeling-transference. And
both of them seem to depend upon
the right conditions, a certain still-
ness and sensitivity.

—The Occult

On the appeal of occultism:

All human beings share a com-
mon craving: to escape the narrow-
ness of their lives, the suffocation of
their immediate surroundings. This,
as Einstein says, is why men want to
escape from cities, to get into the
peace of mountains at weekends. The
narrowness of our lives makes the
senses close up, until we feel stifled.
This also explains why Ouspensky
found “a strange flavor of truth” in
books on Atlantis and magic. It is im-
portant for us to feel that there is
another kind of knowledge, quite dif-
ferent from the logical laws that
govern everyday existence, strange
realities beyond the walls that sur-

round us. Art, music, philosophy,
mysticism are all escape routes from |Js
the narrowness of everyday reality;
but they all demand a large initial |
outlay of conscious effort; you have *
to sow before you can reap. 1

In comparison, “magic” or oc- ®
cultism is a simple, direct method of g
escaping the narrowness of everyday- ®
ness. Instead of turning outwards, to p
the world of the great composers or
philosophers, the student of the oc- p
cult turns immediately inward and %
tries to reach down to his subliminal
depths. ^

—The Occult g

On the fascination i

of the forbidden: i

As we grow from childhood into H
adulthood, we enter new ranges of m
experience that would have been im- S
practical or undesirable for a child, p
from drinking alcohol and smoking to R
climbing mountains and listening to
string quartets. Sex stands out from
all the other experiences as being one f
that must be treated as a kind of if
secret, as if it were some strange 'f
tribal initiation involving a name that
may not be spoken. Now this may be
essential for certain primitive tribes, :
or patriarchal societies; but how far
is it desirable for a civilization like
ours whose basic aim (whatever
gloomy historians say) is “sweetness
and light”? The evolution of Western
civilization has been an evolution of
reason; the rejection of the dogmatic
and authoritarian element in religion,
and also (hopefully) in politics ....
The extermination camps of the Nazis
may be seen as an attempt to return
to a more primitive— and uncompli-
cated-form of society, in which prob-
lems are solved by force and dogma,
not by reason.

It seems to me that this devel-
opment presupposes an important
humanistic premise: that “forbidden-
ness” is bad in itself, although it may
sometimes operate for the good on a
limited scale. For example, sex mur-
ders are not committed by people who
think and talk about sex without in-
hibition, but by people in whom frus-
tration has built it up into something
forbidden and darkly alluring. . . .

In a really civilized society— and
we are still some distance from it—
there will be no forbidden books, or
forbidden ideas.

—The God of the Labyrinth {1970) iS

Linocut by

THE LAST ADAM & El/E STORY

by Bruce J. Balfour

t7rrrrnTTTf^f^9t

I t had come to Adam in a dream. The world was
going to end, and he didn’t want to be around
when it did. He woxildn’t have given the dream
much thought, except that it had come to him every
night for seven days. He didn’t know how or why,
but he was sure it would happen soon. It was a
strange feeling to know the future.

Adam’s wife. Eve, had no idea of what was
going on when she and all their possessions were
piled into Adam’s private starship, T/ie Snake. She
had known when she married him that he was
basically crazy, but she had always been attracted to
losers so it didn’t make any difference. After all, he
was an astrophysicist, and insanity went with the
job. But this was something new. Without warning
he had announced that they were leaving on an ex-
tended trip. He was right about that. They had been
in space for three years.

The strain was showing on both of them. The
schedule was the same every day. Without variation,
they would wake after ten hours of sleep, eat, and
take their stations at the scanning controls until it
was time to sleep again. Actually, they didn’t even
need to monitor the scanning. GOD (Guidance

and Operations Device) did all that for them—
automatically.

I n looking back over the three years. Eve
remembered that they used to spend a lot of
time talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s
company. For some reason, as time wore on, they
talked less and less until they had reached the state
they were in now, never saying a word to each other
except in emergencies. It was sad, but they just
didn’t care anymore. Maybe someday their search
for a new home would end, and things could return
to normal. Maybe. They were getting desperate.

It was one of those rare emergencies that
snapped them out of the routine. Something had
managed to pass the ship’s force barrier. Something
large. GOD woke them from sleep with blaring
alarms moments before the object struck the ship.
They felt like they were moving in slow motion as
their feet hit the floor and they started to run
toward the control room. But they didn’t get that
far. A massive collision slammed both of them into
the wall, knocking them unconscious.

Time passed. It could only have been minutes

66

LOOK OUT, WORLD, HERE THEY COME-
FANTASY'S FAVORITE OOUPLE, TOGETHER AGAIN
FOR (THANK GOD) THE LAST TIMEI

since they had been hit. Eve could hear the insistent
buzzing of the oxygen indicator, which meant they
were low on air. Very low. Adam was already in the
control room when she walked in. His head was
bleeding from a cut over his left eyebrow, but he
didn’t seem to notice it. She saw why when she
stopped next to him at the viewport.

For one thing, GOD was badly damaged. Few
of the instruments still appeared to be operating,
but there was something else that held their atten-
tion. There was a planet in front of them. A magnifi-
cent blue marble much like the one they had left
behind years before.

Adam spoke. “I hope we can live on it. We’re
going to have to land there.”

Eve heard another voice, which she recognized
as her own. “What do the scanners say?”

“Nothing. They don’t work anymore.”

Eve thought she should be excited. She wasn’t.
She 'didn’t feel anything. “All right. Let’s get it over
with.”

The landing was smoother than expected. The
ship settled onto a long slope on the side of a small
hill. They should have been shocked at what they

saw next . . . but somehow they weren’t.

A clear stream flowed down the slope and set-
tled into a sparkling pond at the base of the hill.
Everywhere there was beautiful green grass, which
lay in an even, smooth carpet. A variety of trees ma-
jestic in height bordered the clearing a short distance
away. Colorful flowers and small animals completed
the pleasant scene.

“Interesting,” said Adam.

“What are we going to call it?”

“Who cares?” Adam crossed the room and
placed his thumb on the control for the airlock door.

“Good point. But let’s call it Earth just for
laughs.”

“Fine with me.”

The mind is a fragile thing, especially when it
has been exposed tp loneliness and desperation for
too long a time. The planet they had landed on had
no trees, animals, grasses, streams, or oceans. It
didn’t even have any air.

They dropped dead shortly after they opened
the airlock.

“Well,” said GOD, “that should put a stop to
those endless Adam’and Eve stories.” iS

67

' by Gene O’Neill

JOIN JOMO K. MBABWE AND O. K. JONES
ON A SPINE-TINGLING EXPEDITION THROUGH THE WILDS OF AMERICA,
WHERE THE COUGARS, MUSTANGS, AND RABBITS ROAM FREE—

AT LEAST UNTIL THEY RUN OUT OF GAS.

As we continued riding, I glanced at Mr. 0. K.
Jones, wondering if my judgment had been sound.
The Fargo-Moorhead District Office of the North
American Park Service had been highly recom-
mended by my most esteemed superior back in
Lusaka. Unfortunately, the knowledgeable Deputy
Minister had never laid eyes upon this particular
guide.

And no indeed, Mr. 0. K. Jones was not an im-
pressive figure, even by North American standards.
He was short and wiry, his uniform hanging loosely,
a shabby disgrace to the NAPS logo on his shoulder.
His face matched the weathered, wrinkled condition
of his clothes, and, to complete his unkemp appear-
ance, he wore a permanent dark stubble on his chin.

Well, I decided, what was done was' done.

We bounced along in silence for the remainder

we proceeded

a fter leaving Fargo-Moorhead,

southwesterly, riding toward the heart of the
great Dakota Preserve. Being so near to civ-
ilization, we saw no big game that first morning; so
naturally I was quite excited when we stumbled upon
a pair of Rabbits, resting in a swale of buck
brush— one a dirty gray, the other a faded green.

With a slight shake of his head, Mr. 0. K.
Jones dismissed both contemptuously. Gesturing over
his shoulder to the pack mule, he explained: “Nah,
Jack. Them scuffed-up rascals ain’t worth the trouble
of unpackin’ ole Clementine.”

Reluctantly I agreed, noticing that both were
badly chipped and dented. Still, it might have been
nice to have shot one photo of my first contact with
North American game . . . unsightly objects though
they were.

68

Illustrations bv Peter de Seve

of the day, encountering no more game; and it soon
I became obvious from the condition of my hindquar-
i ters that riding a horse was an extremely tiring and
painful experience for the novice. This realization
came as somewhat of a shock, as I had viewed many
western films at the Histro-Theatre at home, but
never had I seen a rider experience my problem. Of
' course, Mr. 0. K. Jones was perfectly content with
the mode of travel, and, although he said nothing to
me, he hummed a tune to himself, occasionally mur-
muring a line or two— something about a home on a
range— all obviously way off-key.

. Near dusk we stopped and set up camp in a
I dry swale, sheltered from the north wind by a break
: of cottonwoods. They rustled in the breeze, giving
off a fresh, clean odor, reminding me of the cool air
conditioning of my office in the United Lower Africa
Capitol Tower in Lusaka. An absurd association, at-
tributable no doubt to a subconscious homesickness.

Mr. 0. K. Jones returned from hobbling and
feeding our three animals. After helping him gather
wood, I watched him practice his skill as an out-
; doorsman, and my concerns about his competence
I began to diminish. In a few moments he had a roar-
: ing fire started, which was a comfort as the
temperature had dropped with the sun. A few
minutes later we were sitting down to the evening
meal. Simple fare, but tasty. Pork ’n’ beans— a
legume smothered in brown sauce, pieces of fatty
meat— brown bread, and hot tea.

After supper, as my guide called it, the night
I was upon us. In the frosty October air, we exhaled
I plumes of warm steam. Invigorating. Nevertheless, I
i chose to move closer to the warmth of the campfire.
Liking up, I watched stars appear in the clear sky,
shining like pieces of blue-white ice. An impressive
sight. One I had rarely experienced in my homeland.
No, the sky' was seldom clear over Zambia or any
other place in the ULA— one of the penalties of
progress.

“Smoke, Jack—?”

Mr. 0. K. Jones was offering me a funny-
shaped brown cigarette.

Annoyed, I noticed that he persisted in using
the slang appellation. Earlier, in Fargo-Moorhead, I
had patiently informed him that I much preferred
my own name, Mr. Jomo K. Mbabwe, to Jack. To no
avail. He explained that he had no ear for Japanese,
Brazilian, or African names; so, in a spirit of demo-
cratic fairness, he addressed one and all as Jack.
With a humorless expression, he advised me to pre-
tend that it was English for Bwana. The man was
I incorrigible!

• Well, small matter, I thought, declining his of-
fer of one of the curious cigarettes— a narcotic, no
doubt. The use of chemicals was considered a harm-
: less vice by these people; a fact that certainly con-
( tributed to their spiritual, moral, and economic

decline as a nation. A strange people.

And this was a strange land, too. So far, the
Dakota Preserve had been remarkable only for its
flatness, the sin^ar monotony broken only by an
outcast rolling hill, swale, or clump of cottonwood.
And desolate ... I shivered, considering the over-
whelming abundance of uninhabited space. The
Dakota Big Game Preserve was the largest reserva- '
tion in the western hemisphere. Smiling, I thought
wryly that perhaps some of our foreign aid had been
put to good use—

A sigh! Su^rised by this uncharacteristic
sound, I stared curiously across the fire at Mr. 0. K.
Jones. He was leaning back against his bedroll, star-
ing into the &e, eyes glazed and shiny, the flickering
light deepening the wrinkles in his face. The cigar-
ette tip glowed as he inhaled, blue smoke swirling
into the wind and darkness.

“Nah, Jack, it wasn’t always like this. Only a
handful of big ’uns left, and all the game herded into
one area Shoot! I remember reading where Cal- '

Many of ’em big ’uns, too . . . ” His voice trailed to a
whisper, and he shook his head sadly. Gazing into
the fire, his eyes took on that far-off look.

“I didn’t see' a city until I was a teenager,
grew up in Old Kentuck’. That’s wljy them city boys
called me 0. K. And that Detroit City was somethin’
else! Freeways everywhere— six, eight, ten lanes of
asphalt. And the . . . the game. Bumper to bumper.
Everywhere you looked, a big ’un! Man, you shoulda
seen them freeways at night, ’fore supper. That was

Dakota Safari

a sight to behold. A,a. . .river of light,
flowin’ to places like Dearborn and
Plymouth and Royal Oak. I tell you, that
was the greatest thing I ever saw- yep, no question.”

He took another drag on the cigarette, letting
the smoke out slow, lost in thought. “Hard times hit.
So I dropped outta school, and got a job on The
Line. Soon I was workin’on the big’uns. Didn’t
long, though-” He paused abruptly,' and even in the
dim light I could see that his eyes were
moist.

He coughed, cleared his throat, and wiped his
eyes with the back of his wrist. After taking another
drag on the cigarette, he flipped the butt into the
fire.

“Yep, the old way ended, right there. But I
roamed around lost for a few years ’til Interior set
up the Preserve. First I helped round up the surviv-
ing game. Took ’em a long time, too—” He chuckled.
“Some of ’em Cougars and Bobcats was damn
• crafty. Well, anyhow, I finally ended up here, escort-
in’ V.I.P.’s for the Service.” His face had resumed its
pinched, hostile expression.

He looked my way, and I nodded. But for the
better part of fifteen minutes, we sat in silence,
watching the fire and listening to the wind in the
cottonwoods.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Mr. 0. K. Jones jumped up as if stung by a
bee. He kicked dirt onto the fire, making the be-quiet
sign with a finger to his lips; then he disappeared
through the trees into the night.

Silence.

Then one of our horses neighed.

From the direction of the other sounds: Plunk!
Plunk! Plunk! . . . Plunk!

Moments later, Mr. 0. K. Jones reappeared. I
hadn’t moved from where I sat, paralyzed by the
strange sounds and my guide’s instruction.
“What-?”

Again he made the be-quiet gesture. “No fire,”
he whispered.

For a few minutes we listened to the horses
and mule— breathing loudly, milling around, seeming-
ly excited by the strange sounds. Suddenly they
quieted down.

I looked at Mr. 0. K. Jones questioningly. He
ignored me, head cocked to the side, listening. Final-
ly he nodded. Restarting the fire, he said, “They’re
gone. Jack.” He grinned humorlessly. “You can
breathe again.”

“Who was it?” My voice was hoarse with
strain.

“Poachers! Dogscratch poachers. Three of
’em,” he said, spitting into the fire.

“Poachers?”

“Yep,” he said, nodding. Then he realized that

I didn’t understand. “HlegS^ game hunters. Jack.”

“And the peculiar sounds?”

“Rifle shots. They hit a Rabbit— its power
plant, disabled the critter.”

“But why?”

“Emblems, chrome, antenna, stuff like that.
Them four loud plunks? Hubcaps.” He TOntmqed to
feed the fire as the wind rose.

“I’m not sure I quite understand the poachers’
purpose in shooting the Rabbit.” \

He stared at me for a moment as if I were a
slow child, a look of mild disgust, then he explained,'
“They sell ’em. Jack. Big market for that kinda junk
in Brazil. After stripping the valuables, they leave
the carcass ... to rust out here. Maybe we’ll see
some of the remains before we get back to Fargo-
Moorhead.”

Slightly embarrassed by my lack of immediate
understanding, I began to grow angry. “I see. These
poachers are nothing more than common criminals!”

“You got it. Jack.”

“Then what, may I ask, are we doing here and
not pursuing these scoundrels?” For the briefest
moment, a chase scene from Sgt. Preston of the
Yukon flashed before my eyes.

When I refocused on Mr. 0. K. Jones, he was
looking at me again with his expressiori of mild
disgust. “Well . . . one reason is that they are all

70

carryin’ beefed-up .30 caliber M-l’s, Jack,” he said
slowly. “Old antiques, but effective. So I don’t hold
much with gettin’ my ass shot off.” He threw the
remaining wood on the fire. “It’s the Preserve
Rangers’ job, anyways,” he added. “We’ll make a
report when we get back to the District office.”
Without another word he slipped into his agri-plastic
thermal bag, and was snoring a few moments later.

But I couldn’t sleep. My apprehension about
Mr. 0. K. Jones’s competence had changed to a con-
cern about his moral fiber ... or lack of. Was it
possible that a NAPS big game guide was a coward?
My rest was troubled.

t he next morning we were up at first light,
moving southwest again. A grey, dismal day,
dark clouds building up. No sign of the
^ poachers. Very soon I forgot about them, contending

k X , "Mustangs. Jack.

Biggest herd in the
|;;^^reserve. They come to
play on the blacktop."

with stiff joints and sore muscles. My mount, seem-
ing to sense my weakened state, bounced along stiff
legged, sending additional waves of pain up my
spine. The weather wasn’t aiding my condition, as
the temperature was dropping instead of warming
up. I flipped on the thermals on my safari suit, and
made the best of a miserable situation.

Shortly before noon the flatness of the land-
scape changed to a series of gentle rolling hills. Mr.
0. K. Jones reined to a halt atop a hill overlooking a
wide, shallow valley. To the south the flatness was
bordered again with rolling hills. More interesting
was the sun, which was beginning to peep through
the clouds.

Mr. 0. K. Jones grunted, dismounted, and
began unpacking Clementine.

Puzzled, I asked, “Why are we stopping here?”
Surely we weren’t setting up camp this early, ex-
posed on a ridge with a snowstorm lurking in the
air.

He pointed toward the western end of the
valley at three tall cylinders, each twenty-five or
thirty meters high. And north of the cylinders, a
great black lake of asphalt—

And then I saw them and gasped as if I’d been
kicked in the solar plexus. Near the far end of the
asphalt— big game! Fifty, maybe even a hundred. My
heart soared like a rocket at the sight. Powder blues,
siennas, aspen yellows ... all the wild car colors. An
awesome sight! They milled about on the asphalt-
some seemed to be playing tag, others jockeying

back and forth into white-lined stalls— their shiny
coats, chrome, and windshields glittering in the new
sunlight.

“Wh— ?” I was too choked with excitement to

talk.

Mr. 0. K. Jones, who had been watching me,
chuckled at my astonishment. “Mustangs, Jack. Big-
gest herd in the Preserve.” He watched the herd for
a moment. “Them’s grain elevators. The herd comes
to play on the blacktop. Look—” He pointed to the
southernmost section of the herd. “See ’im?”

One Mustang hung back from the herd. I
nodded.

“The leader.” His voice was soft, full of admi-
ration. “Candy-apple red. The color. Special.” He
turned back to the mule. “You can get some good
shots here. Jack.”

We set up and I shot furiously for awhile, until
the sun passed zenith and moved in front of my
tripod. Then I took up my binoculars and scratched
notes on nomenclature. The leader, maintaining a
vigil, was indeed a beautiful creature. Not a scratch,
not a dent. Its color was deep, and it carried extra
chrome along its sides. It made a regal picture.

Crack!

A familiar sound—

“Look!” Mr. 0. K. Jones was pointing at a
Mustang on the southern side of the herd. Checking
it with the binoculars, I sf)otted a large dent with a
coin-sized hole in its hood. The damage was detect-
able because the impact had flaked the paint around
the dent. The beast was motionless.

“Down, Jack! Get down!” I joined him on the
ground, using an outcropping as a shield.

Crack! Another Mustang hit.

“They’re settin’ up a stand. Long as they stay
outta sight, the herd won’t stampede, and they can
pick ’em off one at a time.”

“The whole herd?” It was an incredible
thought.

Crack! Dust flew from a blue hood.

I felt a tightening in my chest. “Isn’t there
something we can do, Mr. 0. K. Jones? Something to
stop this, this . . . massacre?”

“Stay down, Jack. You don’t want them
poachers knowin’ we seen any of this. There ain’t
nothin’ you can do, except run down there and get
shot.”

Crazy ideas tumbled through my mind. Then,
squinting into the afternoon sun, I had it! A western
cinema scene from^ the Histro-Theatre: Mr. Alan
Ladd had used a Thirror flash! We hadn’t brought
any mirrors, but I crawled over to Clementine and
retrieved something almost as good: an old-style
flash attachment, a saucer-shaped disc made of
brushed aluminum. Thank God! I had almost left the
archaic piece of equipment at home.

“You’re takin’i an awful chance. Jack,” Mr.

- i

Dakota Safari

0. K. Jones advised, scowling.

I ignored him, working the disc up and down,
reflecting glittering flashes at the herd. Maybe if I
stood up—

Crack! Chips flew from the outcropping at my

feet.

Shuddering, I wiggled the attachment fran-
tically several times before my knees weakened and I
collapsed to safety beside my guide.

Peeking over the outcropping, we saw the
Mustang leader had bolted, speeding northward,
the herd in pursuit, leaving behind three lifeless
carcasses.

“Okay, Jack, let’s saddle up and haul ass.
Them poachers ain’t gonna be too kindly disposed if
they catch us.”

We packed up quickly and moved due west,
skirting around the hills and valley before turning
south. We saw nothing of the herd of Mustangs or
the poachers. But Mr. 0. K. Jones rode with a wary
alertness. The sky darkened as the clouds again
covered the sun, and the temperature dropped close
to freezing.

Shortly before dusk we came to the outskirts
of what had been a village, before the Preserve was
cleared of human inhabitants.

“C’mon,” Mr. 0. K. Jones said, his voice tense.
He led Clementine up the main street, examining
each crumbling building for signs of danger. A faded
red sign still hung from a storefront: Drink Coca . . .

“We’re gonna set up a stake-out. Maybe get
you a shot of a big ’un— somethin’ you can really be
proud of.”

At the far edge of town, we dismounted near a
collapsed building. The metal roof rested on its side,
a good windbreak. In front of the building was a
canopied section of concrete with three pieces of
equipment sitting on a dais. Badly rusted, the objects
still had hints of paint— white with traces of red and
blue. I stepped closer. Each object had a little win-
dow but no glass— some type of meter. One still had
a rotted hose attached to its side, stirring a recollec-
tion. “Petrol! Petrol dispensers,” I said loudly, proud
of my successful detective work.

“Petrol—?” Mr. 0. K. Jones had a slightly
puzzled frown on his face. “Them’s gas pumps. Jack.
This here was a service station in the old days, and
it still attracts a lot of game. Big ’uns sometimes,
though they’re pretty wary. Strange, the critters
bein’ attracted here with their sealed power cells and
all—” He banged one of the dispensers, making ar.
empty thunk. “Instinct, I guess. Got that old thirsty
memory locked into their computers.”

We set up camp behind the tilted roof, out of
the wind and about twenty-five meters south of the
petrol-dispensing island. The campfire was especially
welcome as the temperature was well below freezing.
My safari-suit thermals did nothing for my hands,
72

face, and feet.

Mr. 0. K. Jones took care of our animals and
prepared the evening meal in short time. His
supper hit the spot— one of his crude but accurate
colloquialisms.

Stiff and sore, I prepared to turn in early, but
Mr. 0. K. Jones became talkative after he smoked
another of his fat brown cigarettes. Similar to other
people from poor nations, he had a curiosity about
African development, and I couldn’t resist describing
our technological progress.

Slowly his smile dissolved, and he mumbled
something abusive about plain, dumb luck.

“Not so, Mr. 0. K. Jones. Our progress stems
from education, persistence, and, of course, ingenu-
ity. Above all, a national courage stemming from a
spiritual mandate—”

“Yeah, you people are humdingers, all right.”
He crawled into his agri-plastic bag, and was fast
asleep before I could answer.

t he next morning we awoke under a thin coat
of new-fallen snow. It was dry and flaky and
only about five centimeters deep, except
where it had piled up in drifts— like alongside the
petrol island where it was almost a meter deep.

“I reckon we’ll stay here. Jack,” Mr. 0. K.
Jones said, finishing his breakfast. “Probably melt
off by tomorrow, if it stays clear. Maybe we’ll get a
picture or two at the pumps today.”

I nodded, secretly appreciating the respite
from the horseback riding.

The morning passed uneventfully, the sun stay-
ing out and feeling good on my face. Mr. 0. K. Jones
had the ability, almost animal-like, to fall asjeep on
command, and he dozed off, face upturned to the
warmth like a lizard sunning itself. About noon I was
startled from my note taking by a low whine, accom-
panied by rapid spinning.

; A Pinto! It had strayed into the drift by the
island and was apparently stuck. Panicky, it spun its
wheels, causing it to sink deeper in the icy trap.

Waking instantly at the sound, Mr. 0. K.
Jones jumped to his feet and scrambled to the
dispensers. “Easy, boy, easy,” he said in a soft, com-
forting voice. At the same time he stroked the
Pinto’s midnight-blue hood. It worked. The Pinto
.calmed down; at least, its wheels quit spinning and it
wasn’t racing its motor.

“Well . . . let’s see now, little fella,” he said,

I circling the drift, inspecting the trapped beast.

. “H-m-m . . . maybe. C’mon, Jack.” He instructed me
to stand on the back bumper, explaining, “Critter’s
too light in back. You bounce up and down when I
signal.” He moved around to the front of the Pinto
and waved his hand. “Okay, boy, slow and easy.”
But after a minute or so of hopeless spinning, Mr.
0. K. Jones waved a halt. “Ain’t workin’.” Steam
rose from the Pinto’s hood.

The motor revved up again.

“Now, now, boy,” Mr. 0. K. Jones said sooth-
ingly, wiping icy flakes from the Pinto’s windshield,

■ “just take it easy. All that fussin’ ain’t doin’ nobody
; a lick o’ good.”

i For a second or two he rubbed his chin, then a
smile spread across his face. “Okay!” He waded into
the drift, and kneeled down in the snow next to a
rear wheel, pushing his hand into the icy mush for a
few seconds. Hisssss! A few moments of the sound
of escaping air, then he jerked his hand out of the
i snow and blew on it. He repeated the procedure on
the other side of the trapped Pinto. Hisssss!

"Them's gas pumps. Jack.
This here was a service
station in the old days,
and it still attracts
a lot of game."

Moving back to the front of the beast, he
shouted, “Start bouncin’. Jack!”

Slowly, slowly, he guided the blue Pinto out of
the drift. When it was on solid ground, he held up
both hands, signaling stop. “That’s got it.”

After the rescue the Pinto hung around camp
for the afternoon, seeming quite attached now to Mr.
0. K. Jones. As we lazed through the afternoon, he
played and talked to the beast, and I read a NAPS
pamphlet: Recognizing Big Game. The silhouettes
: were, quite good.

The evening was quiet. Clear, but no wind, a
j beautiful night for stargazing and staring into the
j flickering campfire. Mr. 0. K. Jones, for some
I reason, had not indulged in his usual after-supper

smoking habit, so he was at his taciturn best.

Unexpectedly the Pinto roared off into the
darkness; and when I turned back to the campfire, I
faced three mounted riflemen.

“Easy now, man,” the figure in the middle
said, pointing the muzzle of his weapon at me. “Both
of you stand and lift your hands up . . . real slow.”

Following Mr. 0. K. Jones’s lead, I stood up,
carefully extending my arms overhead.

The riders edged their horses closer to the fire.
“Good, real good.” The speaker was an old man,
creased face and white beard, his alert eyes a shade
of amber. “Harry, Art, check them animals. See
what our friends are carrying.” Both outside riders
dismounted. As they passed close to the fire, I was
surprised. Only youngsters, and Art was a girl! They
rifled our saddlebags and the pack on Clementine.

“Now wait a minute, sir,” I protested, feeling
a surge of righteous indignation. “Do you realize
that I am Jomo Kenyatta Mbabwe? A ULA citizen?
An official of President Thomas Dabi’s Ministry of
Economic Development?”

The old man opened his eyes wide. “No! I din’t
know that.” His sarcastic tone did not escape my
attention.

“Save your breath. Jack,” Mr. 0. K. Jones ad-
vised. I glanced at him as he shook his head, then
back at 'the old man.,

-

73

Dakota Safari

Controlling his silent glee, he said, “Don’t
know much about that, mister. But I do know that
you cost me a bundle of credits back at the old ^ain
elevators—’’ He gestured northeast with the tip of
his rifle, as his tone grew cold and gritty. “'That
scaring the Mustangs from my stand wasn’t nice . . .
uh-uh.”

Why, this old man and the two youngsters
were the poachers! I glanced at Mr. 0. K. Jones. As
if reading my thoughts, he nodded. Anger welled up
in my throat.

Crack! Crack! After scaring away our animals,
the two youngsters returned to the fire, carrying
some of our belongings . . . including my camera!
The girl carried it, carelessly slung over her rifle.
Without thinking, I dropped my hands and lunged.

Instantly the boy dropped everything except
his weapon, and, whirling around, he brought the
barrel solidly against my knee— a sickening crunch. I
went down, pain spreading from my knee, soaring
up my leg and back, exploding into the base of my
skull. Burning pain. Red— a veil of red. I tried to
groan, but choked on the sour taste of nausea.

Lying there on the ground, fighting to main-
tain consciousness, I heard Mr. 0. K. Jones leap to
my aid.

Crack!

“Enough!” the old man commanded.

Silence.

Gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain, I
looked over to Mr. 0. K. Jones. He was sitting, wip-
ing his face with the back of his wrist. The jvaming
shot from the old man had been at my guide’s feet,
spraying chips of sharp rock and frozen dirt into his
chest and face. Forehead still oozing blood, Mr. 0. K.
Jones glared defiantly at the old man.

“Both of you—” The old man pointed first to
Mr. 0. K. -Jones and then myself with the muzzle of

lA

his rifle, “—take off your boots.”

“Now hold it right there. Jack!” Mr. 0. K.
Jones said angrily. “We can’t walk back to Fargo-
Moorhead barefooted. Feet’ll freeze.”

Deadpan, the old man answered, “Maybe.
Maybe not. You boys shoulda thought of that before
you stuck your noses in our business. Anyhow, you’ll
be strongly motivated to get back to civilization
quickly . . . not be causing us any more trouble. Be
thankful your hides ain’t full of holes. Now hurry up
with them boots!”

Harry and Art mounted up on either side of
the old man, the light growing dim as the fire died
down.

Suddenly the sound of motors roaring to the
north. A wave of light was swooping down on us.
Horns blared! Four sets of light— high beams!

“Park Rangers!” the old man shouted, jerking
his horse around and galloping south, followed by the
youngsters.

In a flxrrry of powdered snow I recognized the
Pinto as it flashed by in hot pursuit of the poachers.
And it had brought three Rangers— all midnight
blue. As the blurs of blue roared through our camp, I
felt a sense of deja vu. My heart was in my throat. A
familiar scene from the Histro-Theatre. I was in the
middle of a blue cavalry charge!

^ One of the Rangers braked and came back.

' Mr. 0. K. Jones was caught up in the excite-
ment, barely able to speak. “A big ’un!” he finally
managed, patting the Ranger emblem.

It was impressive. Deep midnight-blue coat,
not a scratch, dent, or blemish anywhere. A
stretched-out cab, extra chrome, heavy-duty bumper
with stainless steel trailer hitch; and the power plant
—rated % ton. After reading the NAPS pamphlet.
I’d recognize a Ranger anywhere. If Mr. 0. K. Jones
had worked on the line in Detroit on these beasts, he
had reason to be proud. The finest example of big
game in the Dakota Preserve.

I don’t remember much about the ride back to
Fargo-Moorhead in the bed of the Ranger; Mr. 0. K.
Jones had given me something for the pain in my
knee, and I sank into a foggy twilight zone. But I do
remember hearing the other Rangers roar past, and
Mr. 0. K. Jones shouting gleefully, “Barefoot— huh?
You dogscratch poachers ain’t doodley-squat, now!”

A long time ago. But occasionally my knee
locks up, and the dull ache stimulates a host of fond
visions: the stars and desolate space; a magnificent
herd of Mustangs led by a candy-apple red beauty; a
little blue Pinto, and the cavalry charge with the
three big Rangers; the surprised expressions of the
poachers as they tried to escape. But perhaps my
fondest memory is the face of my resourceful and
courageous friend, Mr. 0. K. Jones, distinguished big
game guide for the North American Park Service. (S

r

“No, no, I’ll be all right. We’ll take my old
truck.”

“Best thing for driving around the countryside
anyhow.”

We climbed up into the truck, and with no
more than the usual difficulty we got it going and
backed out onto the road.

As we headed toward the outskirts of the small
country town, the afternoon sun sinking among the
tops of the pines, I thought about Murchison’s
dream. I had been quite truthful: dreams like that
didn’t seem so unusual in light of the past few days,
and almost anyone could imagine having had one. I
put his dream down to the effect of the news stories
on his sleeping imagination. Still, his dream gave a
distinctly more lurid cast to the events— a super-
natural cast, a startling, nightmarish turn. The sort
of thing that might occur to someone with a fever,
to a child trying to sleep after having seen a horror
film . . .

“In my dream,” said Murchison, as he turned
on the mountain road, “everything changed. Enor-
mous damage was done, like some great deep
wound. Impact past belief, past remedy.”

The quiet winter scenery belied his words: the
hazy gauze of tiny bare branches, the greys of the
ground, the bits of grass another shade of grey, the
smell of the earth.

“I can’t remember how much of if was ob-
vious,” he said, “how much was still to come. I could

M M urchison had a distinctly harried look that
complemented his shaking, cigarette-stained
Iwm fingers. Through the large window of his
rural home the barren grey trees of the winter land-
scape waited with the glow of afternoon. I stood up.

“Come, let us go outside. We can take a spin
in your car.”

He sighed and stood, more obediently than en-
thusiastically. “So you see why I called you here. I
had to talk to someone. The dream was so vivid, so
terrible . . . .” He hestitated, gave a short wave to
his cigarette pack. “I don’t usually act this way. I
mean, I usually can’t remember my dreams.”

“Let’s drive around. It’ll be calming. And I
can understand— one might almost say your reaction
is reasonable, even restrained. When you compare
some of the hysteria during the last few days in the
media ...”

We settled in his car, and he turned the igni-
tion. There was a low rattling sound, and nothing
more.

“Good grief!” he exclaimed. “This doesn’t
make me feel one bit better. Perhaps in some
way—” He turned to me, shaken. “This is a new
car," he said. “I got it in November. And now—”

“Even new cars don’t work sometimes,” I
said. “Especially new cars.”

“The dream ... In the dream—”

“We can walk back arojind the hill to my
house, get my car.”

LAST NIGHT THE WORLD HAD MET ITS DOOM
* UNLESS IT HAD -.ONLY. BEEN , . ’

by Byron Ma-rshall

76

see bits and pieces, terrible splintered visions. To see
the whole thing all at once would have been too
much to take.”

“Look. You had a dream. Let’s put that into
perspective. In your dream something dreadful hap-
pened, something dramatic. I advise you to forget it.
After all, everyone was jittery. I was worried myself.
The situation looked really critical Your dream simp-
ly exaggerated the natural danger.”

“Not everyone dreams the end of the world. A
change in the whole order.”

“I bet you’d be surprised. I bet that last night
a lot of people did.”

Murchison screeched the old truck to a halt. A
faint burning smell came from the front.

“You think other people dreamed what I did?
Dreamed this gleaming fire overhead? This toppling
of empires? The millions dying in storm, in flood, in
falling stone? The overturning of all that—”

“Murchison, stop it. Let’s just drive on.”

After a long pause, he shifted into first. Slow-
ly, unsteadily, the truck moved forward. Along the
path next to the road two small dogs kept pace with
us. I noticed a side road.

“Let’s drive up that way, to old Ned’s place.
Take a look at all the decorations he has out this
Christmas.”

Ned Dupre was the local state representative.
As his own form of bread and circuses— or at least as
a little return on his constitutents’ investment— he

treated them to an Outdoor panorama every
Christmas, all visitors welcome.

“Now Ned, he did fairly well— for him,” I said.
“He gave only one hysterical speech. Other than
that, he acquitted himself a lot better than most
public figures. Perhaps,” I added, a little maliciously,
“you should let him set you an example.”

Most public figures had acted atrociously. And
the media had gone over the edge.

But then, it’s not every day that a large comet
appears out of nowhere and aims straight at the
earth.

he media, I thought, had probably been
cheated of their birthright: if the thing had
only become visible months or years earlier,
think what they could have done. Everyone would
have had hysterical dreams like Murchison. As it
was, it had come only a few weeks ago, without warn-
ing: a pinpoint of light— a new comet. And headed for
us. And by yesterday, an amazing crescent in the sky.
And by last night, a growing, glowing face. People in
some countries were rioting. The National Enquirer
was going wild, 'with extra deliveries to all-
night supermarkets. Soothsayers and even some
reporters were predicting uncanny effects, dire con-
sequences, though scientists were arguing that there
was no possible danger.

I watched it all night on the tube, along with
most of the world. Murchison, remarkably enough.

77

Illustration by Jill Karla Schwarz

MmcMsm's Dream

had gone to sleep. And had his dream. A dream in
which the comet had hit— and with an impact far
beyond the physical. It had been, he said, prophetic,
supernatural, terrifying, with the unknowable conse-
quences more terrifying than the known. And so he
had called me to tell me of his dream.

For my part, I had patiently described the real
consequences. The comet’s gleaming apparition. The
strange winds that swept across continents, ex-
plained by a distinguished scientist in ways no
layman could understand. The moment of panic, of
nausea. And then, at three in the morning, the col-
lective sigh of relief when the comet had turned,
vanished, left us. (The media had sighed with disap-
pointment.) And with the new day, things were safe.
Unchanged. As they were. The world resumed its
everyday course. Along early morning streets, peo-
ple stepped out to greet the dawn and bring in the
paper. And now we drove along the peaceful
winter’s road, the lowering light streaking through
the trees, to Representative Ned’s Christmas
wonderland.

The truck seemed reluctant to pull up the grade.

“Now the truck,” said Murchison. “Now it’s
giving me trouble. Never has before.”

“You told me last week,” I said, “that you
were having trouble with it.”

“Nothing like this.”

“Brake trouble. Look, your dream was a
dream; that’s the point. If it had been true, we’d
know it. Right? The danger’s over. We escaped it.
There’s nothing wrong. You’re not going to tell me
that a truck—”

“Amnesia. Shock.”

“What?”

“Selective amnesia, selective awareness. And
not every effect -is visible yet. Do you remember old
Ned’s first wife?”

The decorations were coming into view—
Christmas lights, wooden images of elves and rab-
bits, a clump of weary shepherds, all standing frozen
in time, paint peeling away, as if arrested in motion
by some blinding light above.

“Yes,” I said. “Ned dedicated this park to her
memory.” I was regretting having chosen this road.

“Do you remember— she had that accident.
The interesting thing, when I think about it now,
was how for weeks she didn’t remember anything
about it. It was all a blank. And then, bit by bit, it
began to come back. I remember her telling me.
First, the morning of that day, the day of the acci-
dent. Then the afternoon. Then she could remember
driving along that stretch of road, the curve ap-
proaching. And finally, the car coming around the
curve toward her, on the wrong side of the road. The
moment of collision.” He shivered. The Christmas
lights blinked haphazardly. “And she was never
aware of all the pain, the injuries . . . Not all of

78

them. That was always the strangest part. How she
refused to see—” Suddenly he turned to me.
“Perhaps that’s how it’s working with my dream.
When I woke up, screaming, I felt sure that the
comet had hit, and more: that it was a herald of
change and disaster. And now, in tiny ways, we’re
becoming aware of the effects. They’re beginning to
manifest themselves. For example, my car. My
truck.”

“You’re grasping at straws. If the mail doesn’t
get delivered tomorrow, you’ll tell me it’s because of
the comet.”

I could see him considering this seriously for a
moment. Then he relaxed. “You’re right. I’m being
silly.”

“Right. As I said before— nothing happened.
We’re traveling together through a pleasant winter
countryside, and we’re perfectly safe. There was no
trouble, the comet didn’t hit, things are just as they
were, and we’d know it if they weren’t— okay?”

“Okay.”

I sighed. Perhaps I had finally expunged the
memory of his dream.

“But this pleasant scene around us—” he said,
looking through the window. “The country like I’ve
always remembered . . . No comet in the sky. It left
awfully quick, didn’t it? Shouldn’t we have seen it
going away? Isn’t that a little— unnatural?”

“There was some explanation for that. I forget
what it was. Don’t ask me to remember what a tired
scientist says at three in the morning when he— and
everyone else— is exhausted. If we hadn’t been ex-
hausted we all would have been dancing in the
streets.”

“Okay.” He stared at me for a second, then
leaned back in his seat. “Look, I appreciate your
coming on this drive. It’s been very restful.”

“Everything in its place. That’s why I sug-
gested it.”

“You were right. You know, it’s good to get
out in the country, just drive around on a late after-
noon. I haven’t done it much lately, been too busy.
Probably explains why I overreacted to this whole
crazy business.”

“Well, you weren’t the only one. Anyway, yes,
it is peaceful.”

He brought the truck to a stop. We sat there,
watching, as the sun slowly fell behind the trees,
the chill of the winter’s night creeping up from the
road, the light splintering into our eyes through the
branches.

“And now,” he said, “let’s head for home. I’ll
get a fire going, and we can laugh this whole thing
off.”

I nodded. “Just what I’ve been saying.”

He swung the wheel. The old truck creaked in
a U-turn. “And you were right,” he said. “The sun’s
setting in the east, and it’s time we got back.” iS

And nm rm waiting

by Richard Matheson

THE CHILLING STUDY OF A WRITER'S
SATANIC IMAGINATION -A TALE LATER TRANSFORMED INTO
THE TWILIGHT ZONE COMEDY 'A WORLD OF HIS OWN.'

80

ttor's note: Many Twilight Zone episodes were
Dpted from short stories, some pubiished, some stiii in
nuscript. What's unique about Richard Matheson's
d Now I'm Waiting is that it started out as a horror
J, but was turned into a comedy when Matheson
3pted it for the tv series. We asked the author about
circumstances of its creation. He writes:

I not clear in my memory whether I submitted the
‘ual short story manuscript to Rod and Buck [series
iducer Buck Houghton) or whether I submitted an
tine based on the story— which, incidentally, has
>er been published before. / do recall that they
d the premise but not the approach, teeling that
story was too melodramatic tor them. It was
:ided-again, memory fails and I do not recall
Dse suggestion it was originally— to elect for a
nedic approach. I'm glad we did. It was one of my
orites of the Twiiight Zone segments I wrote; the
f was perfect and Ralph Nelson's directorial touch
right Also, I believe that it was the only TZ
sode in which one of the characters broke in on
I's final narration and altered it.}

ary let me in as soon as I rang the bell. She
must have been waiting in the hallway.

I’d never in my life seen my sister look so
unhappy. Sorrow had woven lines into her face un-
natural for her age. And although neatness was an
ingrained habit, not even her hair was combed. It fell
around her shoulders in tangled brown swirls.

I leaned over to kiss her cheek and felt how
cool and dry it was.

“Give me your things,” she said.

I took off my hat and coat and handed them to
her. She put them in the hall closet. I noticed how
her once straight shoulders were now bowed. I grew
taut with anger at what he’d done to her.

Then a shiver ran through me. I realized it was
almost as cold in the house as outside. I rubbed my
hands together.

Then she was beside me.

“Mary,” I said, and put my arms around her. I
felt her shudder.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I can’t
bear it anymore.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

She hung onto me for a moment. Then she
pulled away and looked toward the study.

“Alone?” I asked.

Her eyes avoided mine. She nodded once.

I took her hand again. “It’ll be all right.”

She lifted my hand and pressed it against her
cheek. Then she turned away.

“Will you wait here?” I asked.

“All right, David,” she said.

I watched her walk to a chair against the
stairs. She sat down and folded her hands on her lap.

I turned and walked to the study door, stood
before it a second. Then, taking a deep breath, I
knocked.

“What is it?” he called impatiently.

“David,” I said.

It was silent. Finally he said, “Oh, come in.”

ichard was standing in front of the fireplace,
a giant of a man. His back was turned to me.
He was staring into the crackling flames, an
aura of light outlining his powerful form, casting
shadows of him on the walls and ceiling.

“What is it?” he said, without turning.

“Mary told me I’d find you here,” I said.

“Clever,”' he said. “Is that all?”

I shut the door behind me.

He turned as I walked toward him, a familiar
expression of arrogance on his handsome features.

“So Mary told you I was in here, did she?” he

said.

I sat down on the couch facing him.

“I want to talk to you,” I said.

He looked down, at me, then turned away.

“Talk about what?” he said.

I twisted around andAurned on a lamp on the
table behind me.

“I don’t want that lamp on,” he said.

“I want to see what you look like.”

He turned around again. I felt a shudder run
down my back as his icy eyes looked into mine. His
lips drew back-in a contemptuous smile.

- H

81

And new I’m waiting

“Do I pass?” he said. “Are you satisfied?”

“You’re not as I’d expected,” I said.

“Or as Mary led you to expect.”

“She said only—”

“I can imagine what she said,” he interrupted.
“Turn off that lamp.”

I reached back and turned it off. Once more
his shadow billowed on the walls and ceiling.

“You look ill,” I told him.

“Come twenty miles to tell me that?”

He stretched out his arms and rested them
across the top of the fireplace. For a brief moment, I
had the sensation that I was watching some ancient
monarch in his hunting lodge.

“No, I didn’t come twenty miles to tell you
that,” I said. “You know why I came.”

“She sent for you,” he said.

My fingers shook as I took out my cigarettes
and lit one. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“That’s besides the p^int,” I said. “Suppose
you telLme what’s wrong.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “she sent for me. I’m surprised
she waited so long.”

“Surprised?”

“Mary is about to have a nervous breakdown,”
I said.

“Oh,” he said, “I see.”

“You don’t see at all,” I said. “You don’t care
at all.”

“Care!” he cried in a burst of temper. “How
many nights have I sat with her trying to explain,
trying to reason with a ... block of wood!” He
clenched his fists. “But who can explain that—”

He broke off the sentence and walked to a
shadowy portion of the room. I heard him drop into

“That what?” I asked.

“Why don’t you finish it?” he said.

“That you’ve been constantly unfaithful,” I

said.

I half expected him to leap out of the shadows.
I tensed myself for it.

When he chuckled, my body jerked with the
unexpected reaction.

“Unfaithful,” he said.

“Is that all you have to say?” I asked.

I heard him stand abruptly, felt his baneful
eyes on the back of my head. Then he walked around
the couch and stood before the fireplace again. He
clasped his hands in back of him.

“Unfaithful,” he said, “Yes. And no.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I asked.

“If you wish.”

“See here, Richard! ” I flared. “This is no—”

“—no laughing matter,” he cut in. “This is
grim business. This is serious. This is bad. This is
. . , laughable.”

82

He chuckled and stood looking at me in
3inus6m0rit

“You know,” he said, “I believe I’ll tell you.”

“If there’s any decency in—”

“Decency?” He snorted. “What a slapstick
word.” He turned away and leaned against the
fireplace, resting his forehead against his arms. He
looked into the flames for a long time in silence. He
seemed to have forgotten me. I coughed. He stirred
and shifted on his feet.

“You recall my last book?” he asked.

“What of it?”

“Do you recall the character of Alice?”

“What about her?” I said impatiently, certain
that he was evading the issue.

“It is with Alice,” he said, “that I’ve been, as
you so quaintly put it, unfaithful.”

“Very funny,” I said.

He turned and looked at me coldly.

“I should have expected this from you,” he
said. “Why did I think for a moment that you could
possibly understand?”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

He barked a scornful laugh. “You fool! Can’t
you see that?”

He turned away and took deep breaths. Then
he spoke as though he were speaking to himself.

“Alice became so real,” he said, “that Mary
believed in her existence. As a person. An actual
person. And this is my unfaithfulness.”

He looked over his shoulder at me.

“But why do I even mention this to you?” he
said. “Why should I dare hope to penetrate that
skull of yours?”

“You’re lying,” I said. “I know my sister bet-
ter than that.”

“Do you?” he said.

“It’s a lie.”

“Oh, go home,” he said.

“Listen—”

“Did you hear me!” he shouted.

I sat without moving. He stood glaring at me,
hands twitching at his sides. Finally he turned away.

“If it’s true,” I said, “explain it.”

“I told you,” he said in a bored voice.

“I want the truth,” I said. “Mary is losing her
mind and I want to know why.”

He didn’t move. I couldn’t tell whether he was
listening or not.

“I know you,” I went on. “You don’t care
about her. You never did. You’ve always expected
her to live on scraps from you; well, that much she
expected. She was prepared to share you with your
work . . . and yourself.”

I stood.

“But this isn’t intangible,” I said angrily.
“This is outright and cruel. And I want to know
about it.”

You're such a little fellow.
It would be a pity to break
your neck. "

He sighed, then spoke with that shifting of
mood that made him so inexplicable. His voice was
almost gentle.

“You are a child,” he said. “Impossibly and Ir-
remedially a child.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

He turned with a look of unconcern on his

face.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you
ask Mary whom I’ve been consorting with?”

I looked at him.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Are you afraid?”

“All right,” I said. “I will.”

At the door I paused, about to say something
threatening. I was afraid to say it. I went out.

/ was about to close the door when I heard his
voice. At first I thought he was calling after me.
I turned around.

He wasn’t talking to me.

“She is five foot seven,” he said. “Her hair is
thick and golden. Her eyes are green jewels. They
sparkle in the firelight. Her skin is white and clear.

“She is long and sleek. Tawny as a cat that
stretches on the hearth rug and rakes its nails across
it. Her teeth are sparkling white. Her—”

His voice broke off, and I knew that he’d seen
the half-open door.

I turned. Mary was standing beside me, star-
ing at the doorway.

“Let’s go in,” I said.

She didn’t say anything. I put my arm around
her and pushed open the door.

“No,” she said.

“Please.”

Richard watched us dispassionately as we
walked to the couch. I turned on the lamp.

“And how are you, sweetheart?” Richard

asked.

She lowered her eyes. I sat beside her and
took her hand.

Richard turned his back to us and looked at
the fire again.

“Well,” he said, “what now?”

“We’re going to get this matter thrashed out,”

I said.

Mary tried to get up, but I held her back.

“We have to settle this now,” I told her.

“We have to settle this now,” mocked Richard.
“Damn you!” I cried.

'“David, don’t,” Mary said. “It never helps.”
Richard turned around and looked at her with
a laugh.

“You know that, don’t you?” he said. “At least

we’ve managed to teach you that much.”

“Mary,” I said, “who is Alice?”

She closed her eyes. “Ask my husband,” she

said.

“Why, surely,” Richard said. “Alice is a
character in my last novel.”

“That’s a lie,” she said. I could barely hear her

voice.

“Eh?” Richard said. “What’s that? Speak up,
my dear.”

“She said it was a lie!” I cried.

He moved his gaze to me.

“Control yourself,” he warned. ..

I started to get up, but he quickly stepped over
and closed his hands upon my shoulders.

“Don’t forget yourself,” he said. “You’re such
a little fellow. It would be a pity to break your
neck.”

“Tell us the truth,” I said.

He pulled away his hands and went back to the
fireplace.

“The truth, the truth,” he chanted, “why do
people want the truth? It never pleases them.”

He ran a hand through his hair. Then he blew
out a tired breath.

“Listen,” he said, as though making one last
effort, “Mary is the victim of a delusion.”

I glanced aside. Mary had raised her head and
was looking at him.

“Try to understand,^’ he said. “The girl Alice
is a fictional character. When my wife started to see
her, well—” He shrugged. “She saw only a phantom,
a figment of—”

“Why are you lying?” Mary cried. “I saw her
in this very room with you!”

It was no use.

“Come on,” I said, “I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Please,” she whispered.

As we were leaving, I noticed him turning off
the lamp again.

“Good night!” he called. “Pleasant dreams!”

I took her upstairs and made sure that she
locked the bedroom door from the inside.

hen I returned to the study, Richard was
stretched out on the couch. I turned on the
lamp.

“Leave it off,” he said.

“I want it on.”

He threw himself on his side. “Oh, go home,
will you? Get the hell out of here and leave me
alone.” .

I went around to the front of the couch. He
sat up.

“Did you hear what I said?” he threatened.

“I want the truth.”

He jumped up, and his powerful hands closed
on my^arms. “I said go!” he yelled.

83

Iv

And now I'm waiting

My face must have gone blank with fear. His
face suddenly relaxed and he shoved me down on the
couch.

“Oh, why bother?” he said, going back to the
fireplace. “All right. I’ll tell you everything. I’d like
to see your face when you hear it.”

He rested one arm on the fireplace mantel and
turned to me.

“In my first book there was a character named
Erick. I don’t expect you remember him. He was my
first good character. Out of words I built flesh and
blood and living force.”

A look of recollection crossed his face.

“Erick came in here one night while I was
writing. He sat down where you’re sitting. Right
there. We talked. He spoke in the way I had made
him speak. We had a hell of a time. We discussed all
the other people in the book. After a while, some of
them came in, too. The ones that I had realized
well.”

“You’re lying,” I said*

“Lying! You idiot! You wanted your damn
truth, didn’t you? Well, here it is! Are you too ig-
norant to understand it?”

He glared at me, trying to control his fury.

“It went on like that,” he continued. “And
then I’d think, T want them to return to their spec-
tral homes.’ And soon they started to make excuses,
and before long I was alone again. Not sure I hadn’t
dreamed it all.”

He turned and was silent for a long time. Then
a quiet laugh rumbled in his chest.

“I wrote a second book,” he said, “but I was
too anxious. I didn’t know my people. They never
lived.”

He turned to me with a look of elation on his

face.

“Then I wrote my third book. And Alice. She
breathed and she lived. I could see her and know
her. I could sit and look at her beauty. I could drink
in the fragrance of her hair, run my fingers through
it, caress her long smooth limbs, kiss those warm,
exciting—”

He caught himself and looked at me.

“Do you understand?” he said. “Can you
possibly appreciate this?”

A look of childlike desire to make me under-
stand filled his face.

“Can’t you visualize it?” he said excitedly.
“She was alive, David. Alive! Not just a character on
a printed page. She was real. You could touch her.”

“Then Mary saw—” I said.

“Yes. Mary saw. One night I summoned Alice.
She was right here, unclothed, standing in the heat,
painted over with flickering gold, an incensing,
blood-pounding creature ...”

He bared his teeth.

“And then she came, my precious wife. She

saw Alice. She cried out and shut the door and ran
to hide her head. I sent Alice away. I ran and caught
Mary on the stairs. I brought her down and showed
,her there was no one. She didn’t believe me, of
course. She thought Alice had gone out through that
window over there.”

He laughed loudly.

“Even though it was snowing outside!” he

said.

His laughter stopped.

“You’re the first I’ve told,” he said. “And I’m
only telling you because I have to share the wonder
of it. I’d never meant to speak of it. Why should the
sorcerer give away his sorcery, the magician market
his wand? These things are mine, all mine.”

He told me to turn off the lamp. Without a
word I reached back and turned it off.

“Yes, David,” he said. “My wife saw Alice.”

He threw back his head and laughed again.

“But not the others,” he said.

•• thers?” A feeling of unreality pressed in
■ / on me.

“Yes!” he said, “the others! Do you know
what happened after Alice came alive? No, of course
you don’t.”

He leaned forward.

“After I created Alice, everything I imagined
came to life. There was no struggle. I imagined a cat
sleeping before the fireplace. I’d close my eyes and,
opening them. I’d see it there, its bushy coat warm
and crackling, its nose pink from the heat.

“Everything, David! Everything I wanted. Oh,
what people I filled this house with! I had madmen
and harlots embracing in the hallways. I’d send Mary
away and have my house bursting its seams with
demons’ revelry.

“I held ancient debauches in the front hall; had
a torrent of red wine pouring down the stairway. I
made altars and sacrificed young maidens; the floor-
boards were soaked with their blood. I held shriek-
ing, howling orgies that filled my house with masses
of I’ust-mad people writhing like worms. Everything
\Wmg— living! ”

He paused and caught his breath. ,

“Sometimes I felt sad and dismal,” he said. “I
filled my house with ugly, sorrowful people, silent
people. I walked among them patting the shoulder of
a clay-dripping corpse, chatting idly with a ghoul.

“You’re insane,” I muttered.

It seemed to relax him. He closed his eyes and
turned away.

“Oh, God,” he said wearily, “why do people
always say the things I expect? Why can’t they be a
little original?”

He turned at the sound of my standing.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“I’m taking Mary away,” I said.

84

“Good,” he said.

I stared at him. I couldn’t believe it. “Is that
all she means to you?” I asked.

“Make up your mind,” he said.

I backed toward the door.

“Everything you’ve told me is a lie,” I said.
“There aren’t any people. You imagined it all. There
isn’t anything but the ugliness you’ve brought into
my sister’s life.”

I jumped back. He whirled and before I could
get out he had rushed over to me and grabbed my
wrists in a steel grip. He dragged me back to the
couch and pushed me down on it.

“She’s five foot seven,” he hissed. “Her hair is
thick and golden. Her eyes are green jewels. They
sparkle in the firelight. Her skin is white and clear.”

A feeling of revulsion crawled over me.

“She is wearing a blue dress,” he said. “It has
jewels on the right shoulder.”

I tried to get up. He shoved me back and,
reaching out one arm, grabbed me by the hair.

“She’s holding a book,” he snarled. “What was
the name of the book you gave your mother? On her
birthday long ago? ”

I gaped at him. His fingers wrenched hair off
my scalp. White pain flared.

“What’s the name?” he demanded.

“Green Roses, ” I said.

He let go of me and I slumped on the couch.

“That’s the book,” he said, “that Alice will be
holding when she comes in this room.”

He faced the door.

“Alice,” he said. “Come upstairs, Alice. One
step at a time. Now open the kitchen door. That’s
fine. Don’t trip. That’s it. Walk across the floor.
Never mind the lights. Push open the swinging door
in the dining room.”

I caught my breath.

I heard a woman’s heels clicking on the dining
room floor. I pushed up and scuffed backwards into
the shadows. I bumped into a chair and stood there.

The heels came closer.

“Come right in here, Alice,” Richard said.
“Closer and closer and—”

The door flew open and the shadow of a
woman streamed across the floor.

She came in, exactly as Richard had described

her.

Holding a book in her right hand.

She put it on the table behind the couch and
walked up to him. She slid her red-nailed hands over
his shoulders and kissed him.

“I’ve missed you,” she said in a lazy, sensuous

voice.

• “What have you been doing?” he asked.

She ran a finger slowly across his cheek, an
amused laugh bubbling in her throat.

“But you already know, darling,” she said.

He clutched her shoulders. A look of rage
crossed his face. Then he pulled her against him and
kissed her violently. I gaped at them like a spying
boy.

Their lips parted, and one of her hands slid like
a serpent into his hair. Richard looked over her
shoulder at me, a smile on the corners of his mouth.

“My dear,” he said, “I’d like you to meet
David.”

“Why, of course,” she said, without turning, as
though she already knew I was there.

“That’s him cowering in shadows,” Richard

said.

She turned and looked at me. “Do come out of
the shadows, David,” she said.

She reached over the couch and put on the
lamp. I flinched and pushed back against the chair.

“Frightened?” Alice said.

“Bashful,” Richard said.

I tried to speak. The words caught in my
throat.

“Did you say something?” Alice asked. '

“Monster!” I whispefed.

A look of mild surprise crossed her face.

“Why, David,” she said.

She turned to Richard and held out her arms
to the side as though offering herself for inspection.

“Am I a monster, darling?” she asked.

Richard laughed and pulled her against him.
He kissed her neck. “My beautiful gold-haired
monster,” he said.

She left his embrace and came to me. I cringed
back. She reached out one hand, and I felt the warm
palm on my cheek. I shivered.

She leaned toward me. I could smell her per-
fume. I made a sound of fright. Her warm breath
touch me, and I drew back with a shudder. “No,” I
said.

Richard laughed. “That’s a new one. The first
rebuff of your career.”

Alice shrugged and walked away from me.
“I must say he’s not the friendliest person I’ve
met.” She gloated at Richard. “Like the Duke, for
instance.”

His smile disappeared.

“Don’t talk ab*out him,” he said.

“But darling,” she said mockingly, “you
created him. How can you hate your own creation?”

He grabbed one of her wrists and squeezed it
until the color drained from her face. She made no
outcry.

tl

85

M now rm waiting

“Don’t ever try to fool me,” he gasped.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Then her face relaxed. She looked over her
shoulder.

“Oh, David,” she said, “I brought you a book.”

I stumbled to the table, felt their eyes on me. I
reached out and picked up the book.

Green Roses.

My fingers went dead. The book slipped from
them and thudded on the rug. It opened with a flut-
ter, and I saw the title page. I knew the words by
heart, for I had written them.

To Mommy on her birthday. Love, David.
“True,” I muttered.

“Of course,” I heard him say.

/ kept backing up until I felt a chair against my
legs. I sank down and stared dumbly at them,
watched him caress her. The room seemed to
whirl about me.

“This is worth the hotirs of waiting,” he was
saying.' “It makes the torture seem like a just
penance.”

“Torture?” she said in an amused tone.

He dug his fingers into the tresses of her hair.
He drew her close, their lips almost touching.

“You don’t know how much of me went into
your creation,” he said. “You’re not just another
woman to me. You’re more than anyone in the
world. Because you’re a part of me.”

I couldn’t bear to listen any longer. I pushed
up and stumbled for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To get my sister,” I said.

“No,” he said.

I turned around. “But you said—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he told me.

“Where is she?” Alice asked.

He glanced at her. “Why do you want to
know?”

“I want to go and talk to her.”

“No,” he said. “You can’t.”

He was looking at me and didn’t notice the
look of hate that flickered over her face.

“Sit down,” he told, me.

“No.”

“Sit down,” he repeated, “or I’ll destroy your
sister.”

I stared at him. Then, without a word, I went
back to the chair.

“I want to see her,” Alice said.

He grasped her arm. “I said no,” he said.
“You do what I tell you.”

“Always?” she asked.

“Or your life is ended!” he cried.

He released her.

“Now you must go,” he said. “You’ll kiss me
once and go back to your secret place. Until I want

86

you again.”

An emotionless smile raised her red lips. Then
she leaned forward and kissed him.

“Goodbye,” she said.

He pulled her close and looked into her eyes.
“Remember,” he said. “As I say.”

“Goodbye.”

She moved away from him and I heard the
door closed behind her. The sound of her heels faded.
Richard turned back to the fireplace.

He stayed that way. Slowly a hope that I could
escape grew in me. I started to take off my shoes. If
I could only get to the door without him seeing me
... I stood.

My eyes never left him. His body seemed to
waver in the firelight. I stepped slowly across the
rug. One foot after another.

My hand was on the doorknob.

“A ten-foot cobra is climbing up my bedroom
door,” Richard said. “It is going to kill my wife.”

I stared at him.

He hadn’t even turned around.

I ran to him and clutched his arm. “Richard!”
Suddenly, from upstairs, a scream pierced the
air.

Richard’s head jerked around. A look of horror
filled his face.

“No,” he said.

He tore from my hold and rushed to the door.
He flung it open and ran across the hall. I heard him
cry out:

“It is gone! It has disappeared!”

I ran after him up the stairs.

/ found him kneeling over her.

It was Alice— dead. Her cheeks were puffed, her
eyes wide and staring. Under her right eye were
two red punctures.

Richard was looking at her in disbelief. He
reached down and touched her face with trembling
fingers, felt for her heartbeat.

I looked at Alice’s feet. She had taken off her
shoes so Richard would not hear her on the stairs.

He picked her up, his face a blank. He started
down the stairs and took her into the study.

I turned quickly.

Mary was standing in the bedroom doorway,
looking down at the study.

I grabbed her hand. “We’ve got to go!” I said.
She didn’t speak as I half dragged her down
the long stairway and out the front door. I put her in
my car.

“Drive to the highway and wait for me.”
“But-”

“Don’t argue,’’ I said.

She stared at me for a moment. Then she
turned and drove down the path. I watched the car
roll onto the road. I turned and ran back into the

house.

I found him kneeling beside the couch on which
he had placed Alice’s body.

He was holding her hand and stroking it. All
the arrogance was gone. He looked as though he
thought she was going to wake up in a moment.

I went over to him and put my hand on his
shoulder. His head snapped back and he looked up at
me.

“You’ve got to get rid of her,” I said.

“The house is burning,” he said.

The suddenness made me jump backwards.
The walls had burst into flame. The drapes began to
curl, the room abruptly thick with smoke.

“Richard!” I cried. “Stop it!”

He didn’t answer. He only stared at Alice’s
puffed, white face and stroked her hand. ,

I knew it was hopeless. I rushed for the door.
Just before I reached it, a sheet of flame blocked the

I whirled and looked at him.

He didn’t want me to leave.

I coughed as the choking fumes entered my
throat. Turning, I ran for the window. Flames
covered it.

I jerked a small table from the floor and hurled
it at the window. It splintered through. I dived for
the opening.

“No!” I heard him yell. It made me jolt to a

halt.

“You can’t go!” he cried. His words broke off
into a peal of laughter.

“You can’t stop me! ” I cried.

He didn’t say anything, just smiled and sank
across her body.

Suddenly I knew why I couldn’t go.

Because I’m one of his characters, too.

And now I’m waiting. fS

Answers to the Heroes and Heavies
Quiz Revisited

l-Z. Russell lost her head temporarily over charming
psychopath Montgomery in the original Night Must Fall
(1937). 2-JJ. Glamorous Gloria (“I never drink . . . wine”)
thought Otto a man she could get her teeth into in
Dracula’s Daughter (1936). 3-C. Balsam’s private eye
career was cut short by Perkins’s immortal Norman Bates
in Psycho (1960). 4-HH. Long before he became the Fern-
wood Flasher, Kilian (and fellow miniaturized humans)
battled Dekker’s florid Doctor Cyclops (1940). 5-B. Ham-
mer’s nod to feminism presented Bates and Beswick as
Doctor Jekyll and Sister Hyde (1972). 6-A. Stalwart Joel
as the prey triumphed over decadent (and far more inter-
esting) Banks as the hunter in The Most Dangerous Game
(1932). 7-AA. If ever a woman had grounds for divorce,
Gloria did with Tom in / Married a Monster from Outer
Space (1958). 8-D. New Englander March was bedeviled
by father-in-law Kellaway, a mischievous warlock, in the
delightful I Married a Witch (1942). 9-CC. Rain provided
the fruity voice of HAL as the computer battled astronaut
Uullea in 2001: A Spare Odyssey (1968). 10-11. DeSouza
and his bride were menaced by epicene vampire Willman
in Kiss of Evil (1963). 11-U. In Night Creatures, based on
the Doctor Syn legend, Cushing was the pirate turned vicar
and Allen his naval officer adversary (1962). 12-L. Furry-
footed Howard was stalked by investigator Ellison in The
Undying Monster (1942). 13-J. After a savage fight,
heroine Weaver was the victor over robotic doctor Holm
in Alien. (1979). 14-1. Sutherland was one of the individual-
ist holdouts and Nimoy, round-eared but no less wooden,
his adversary in the second go-round for Invasion of the
Body Snatchers (1978). 15-G. Karloff, as revived mummy
Im-ho-tep, sought to bring the joys of eternal life to
Johann (but was thwarted by perennial busybody Edward
Van Sloan) in The Mummy (1932). 16-EE. Sexy Nita fell
afoul of Barrymore’s eye-rolling Mr. Hyde in the silent
Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1920). 17-T. Massey, as one
of the heroic “airmen,” saw the downfall of Richardson’s

savage Rudolph in Things to Come (1936). 18-E. Lugosi’s
Count was undone by Van Sloan's Doctor Van Helsing in
Drcunda (1931). 19-S. The good doctor was back (Dracula,
1979), this time portrayed by Olivier using his ghastly Mit-
tel European accent, to put an end to the evil designs of
Langella’s romantic Count. 20-DD. Atwill was loose in the
lab again, but foiled by reporter Farrell, in Mystery of the
Wax Museum (1933). 21-FF. Rains’s murderous Jasper
did away with nephew Montgomery (or did he?) in The
Mystery of Edwin Drood (1935f 22-F. Soul tried to warn
his hometown about the evil lurking beneath Mason’s dap-
per exterior in ’Salem’s Lot (1979). 23-N. Veidt was the
evil Jaffar and Justin the handsome hero in the marvelous
The Thief of Bagdad (1940). 24-K. Victorian shrink Porter
met his doom at the hands of analysand Rees, you-know-
whose daughter, in Hands of the Ripper (1971).
25-P. Magee, in an uncharacteristic role, was the police-
man who unmasked Stanley in Seance on a Wet Afternoon.
(1964). 26- V. Scotland Yard inspector Keen had an idea
(correct, as it turned out) that crime writer Gough was
providing his own material in Horrors of the Black
Museum (1969). 27- Y. Woodward (also luckless in Breaker
Morant) came to investigate a mystery on Lee's island
and, much to his sorrow, solved it in The Wicker Man
(1973). 28-W*. Wordsworth became the eponymous villain
after a rocket flight and Donlevy was the redoubtable
Professor Quatermass in The Creeping Unknown (1956).

29- H. That man was back again; this time Kinski was the
Count and Ganz his adversary in Nosferatu (1979).

30- 0. In her film debut, Lansbury was the innocent victim
of Hatfield’s deceptively angelic Dorian in The Picture of
Dorian Gray (1945). 31-GG. Peck discovered that son
Stephens was hardly a chip off the old block in The Omen
(1976). 32-R. Lorre, as the demented Doctor Gogol, made
pianist Clive’s life miserable in Mad. Love (1935).
33-Q. Years before the Pink Panther, actor Edwards tan-
gled with vengeful spirit Middleton in The Strangler of the
Swamp (1945). 34-M. Young Landon was hunted by pol-
iceman Williams in I Was a Teeoiage Werenvolf (1957).
35-BB. In Time Bandits (1981), Warner's Evil lost his
ages-old struggle against the Supreme Being, in this case
a dapper Richardson. '

?1

r

* "

A WorlcJ of His Own

by Richard Matheson

THE ORIGINAL
TELEVISION SCRIPT
FIRST AIRED ON CBS-TV
JULY I 1960

CAST

Gregory West Keenan Wynn

Victoria West Phyllis Kirk

Mary Mary LaRoche

FADE ON:

1. EXT. SKY NIGHT

Shot of the sky . . . the
various nebulae and planet
bodies stand out In sharp,
sparkling relief. As the
CAMERA begins a SLOW PAN
across the Heavens —

NARRATOR’S VOICE

There is a fifth dimension
beyond that which is known
to man. It is a dimension as
vast as space, and as
timeless as infinity. It is the
middle ground between light
and shadow — between
science and superstition.

And it lies between the pit

of man’s fears and the
summit of his knowledge.
This IS the dimension of
imagination. It is an area
which we call The Twilight
Zone.

The CAMERA HAS BEGUN TO
PAN DOWN until it passes the
horizon and is flush on the
OPENING SHOT.

2. EXT. GREGORY WEST’S
HOUSE FULL SHOT
DAY STOCK

The house is big; expensive
looking. It is a cold October
afternoon.

NARRATOR’S VOICE

The home of Mr. Gregory
West, one of America’s most
noted playwrights.

CAMERA MOVES IN toward
the house.

LAP DISSOLVE TO:

3. INT. GREGORY WEST’S
OFFICE FULL
SHOT DAY

A richly appointed room with
built-in bookshelves, a desk
with a tape recorder on it and

L E P L A Y

i — 1

bulky, comfortable-looking
furniture. CAMERA DRAWS
BACK toward the offscreen
fireplace. The CRACKLING of a
fire and the SOUNDS of a
drink being prepared can be
heard offscreen.

NARRATOR’S VOICE

The office of Mr. Gregory
West.

Now, APPEARING IN SCENE
is GREGORY WEST slouched
on a leather sofa and looking
into the fire with a most
contented smile. CAMERA .
HOLDS. West is In his early
forties, a man of moderate
height and a deal less than
moderate good looks. He has
on a well-worn smoking
jacket.

NARRATOR’S VOICE
Mr. Gregory West. Shy.
Quiet. And, at the moment,
very happy.

Offscreen, the SOUND of the
drink being prepared ceases.
FOOTSTEPS sound,
approaching the sofa. Greg
turns with a smile as MARY
ENTERS SCENE, bringing his
drink. She is in her middle |
thirties, brown-haired, slender; |
quite as physically ordinary as -
Greg. She wears a black dress j
with a single strand of pearls s
at her throat. )

NARRATOR’S VOICE

Mary. Warm. Affectionate.

Mary hands Greg the glass,
pursing her Ups as if kissing
him. She sits beside him,
slides her arms around his
lean body and, burrows her
face into his neck. She sighs
happily as Greg puts his arm
around her and kisses her
hair. CAMERA PANS TOWARD
the window.

NARRATOR’S VOICE

And the final ingredient -

Suddenly, we see VICTORIA
WEST standing outside the
window, looking in. She is tall

88

and regally beautiful; also, at
this moment, she Is smiling
[ venomously at the culprits.

^ NARRATOR’S VOICE

— Mrs. Gregory West.

Abruptly, Victoria turns from
the window and disappears.
CAMERA PANS BACK to Greg
and Mary on the sofa. He
kisses her hair again. She
' takes hold of his free hand,
which Is draped over her
shoulder and kisses It
tenderly. Offscreen, out In the
hall, the sound of the front
door SHUTTING is heard, and
the CLICK of rapidly
approaching high-heeled shoes
begins. Greg jerks his gaze In
that direction, a look of
startled apprehension on his
face. He stiffens as the
doorknob Is turned.

VICTORIA’S VOICE
(restrained)

Gregory!

Both Gregory and Mary sit
bolt upright in alarm. He
drops his glass.

VICTORIA’S VOICE
(the spider and the fly)

I’m home, darling.

Greg jumps to his feet. Mary
grabs his sleeve.

MARY

(softly; urgently)

Greg, not again.

GREG

(whispering)

I have to, Mary!

VICTORIA’S VOICE

Are you working, dear?

Greg tries to take Mary’s arm
off his sleeve.

MARY

(pleading)

No, Greg.

GREG

What else can I do?

VICTORIA’S VOICE

Am I interrupting you?

Greg grits his teeth.

MARY

(gently)

Are you so sure?

GREG

What else can I do?

MARY

(smiles sadly)

All right, dear.

She lets go of his sleeve and
he rushes 'for the desk In the
b.g. Mary looks Into the fire
pensively.

VICTORIA’S VOICE

May I come In, darling?

4. INT. HALL

Victoria taps on the door
again, patient, sure of herself.

VICTORIA

I’ll only be a moment. I just
want to —

(teeth clenched)

— kiss you.

She raises her hand to knock
on the door again when it Is
unlocked.

5. INT. OFFICE

Greg opens the door, an
Inquisitive smile on his lips.

He too, suddenly, is sure of
himself.

GREG

Well . . . you’re home a
little earlier than I —

He breaks off as Victoria
strides past him regally, fully
expecting to confront Mary.
Abruptly, she stops, her
expression blanking out. She
stares at —

5A. THE FIREPLACE
AREA

There Is no Mary In sight.

5B. -VICTORIA

turning her head quickly
toward —

5C. THE DESK AREA

No Mary.

5D. -VICTORIA

Gaping at —

5E. FULL SHOT THE
OFFICE

Not a sign of Mary.

5F. GREG AND -VICTORIA

Greg’s smile and demeanor are
a little overdone; as 'if he is
compensating for the Inner
guilt he suffers.

GREG

What Is it, dear?

Victoria’s anger, formerly so
regally contained, begins to
show through In her now
blazing eyes. She blinks in
confusion.

GREG

(even margarine wouldn’t melt
in his mouth)

Is something wrong?

Victoria Durns to look at him,
puzzled.

DISSOLVE TO:

BILLBOARD
FIRST COMMERCIAL

FADE IN:

6. INT. OFFICE GREG
AND -VICTORIA DAY

Victoria Is trying a window.

GREG

(with an easy smile)

How come you’re home so
early, dear? Didn’t you like
the movie?

VICTORIA

(moving off; expressionless)

Not too much. Suddenly, I
Just decided to come home.

Greg watches as Victoria,
trying hard to look composed,
walks around the office,
glancing behind drapes, chairs,
under the desk, etc.
(Conversation continues as she
moves around)

89

GREG !

(covering his surprise) |

Oh. Really. j

(swallows) ■ I

That’s too bad. i

listening Intently for a hollow
sound.

GREG

What are you doing?

VICTORIA

(distractedly)

Yes, Isn’t It?

She stops, looks over at him.

VICTORIA

(trying to sound blase)

Just — checking the wall.

GREG

Oh.

VICTORIA
(pointedly)
i Been -busy?

I

GREG

(maintaining the fixed smile)
Oh . . . T got a little bit
done.

; VICTORIA
Did you?

(beat) ■

I see you broke a glass.

!

She moves off again,
searching; yet pretending not
to search.

GREG

Looking for something,
dear?

i VICTORIA

Greg watches her for a
moment, then, repressing a
slight smile, he moves toward
his desk. Keeping an eye on
his wall-checking spouse, he
covers up his tape recorder.

He picks up a pair of scissors
which have been thrown onto
the desk and starts to ease out
the top drawer. Victoria turns
I suddenly.

i VICTORIA
I (very sharply)

! What Is that?

The scissors clatter on the
desk as Greg drops' them.

GREG

Just — my scissors.

(smiling Idly)

No, no. Just — seeing If
your room needs to be —
(glancing at him meaningfully)
— cleaned .

! GREG

, (smiling back)

I don’t think so.

Turning away from him with
a grunt, she starts along the
wall, rapping on It with the
knuckles of her left hand,

Victoria comes over and picks
up the scissors. She examines
them, then looks up, hard put
to conceal her suspicion. She
puts the scissors down and
manages a smile.

VICTORIA

(sly)

Do you have a secret door
In here, darling?

GREG

A secret door?

VICTORIA

Yes.

GREG

Why on earth would I have
a secret door In here?

VICTORIA
(closing In)

Yes. Why on earth?

GREG

Are you all right? Victoria?

VICTORIA

Well, I don’t know.

GREG

How’s that, dear?

VICTORIA

I think I may be suffering
from hallucinations.

GREG

(understanding and smiling)

Oh?

VICTORIA

Yes. Just a few moments
ago I was standing outside
that window there —

GREG

(his smile congealing)

You were.

VICTORIA

Yes . And what do you think
I saw? That Is — what do
you think I thought I saw?

GREG

(weakening)

I couldn’t guess.

VICTORIA

I thought I saw a woman In
your arms.

GREG

(trying to sound amused)

Did you?

His laugh rings false.

Victoria’s laugh Is assured.

VICTORIA

Wasn’t that ridiculous? |

GREG

(smile frozen)

Wasn’t It?

VICTORIA •

(beat; moving in for the kill)
Aren’t you curious about
what she looked like?

GREG

(falling fast)

Well, I —

VICTORIA
(cutting In)

She had brown hair. She
was wearing a black dress
with a single strand of
! pearls,
i (the clincher)

! She handed you a drink .

■ GREG

(practically caught)

Well . Such detail. Isn’t that
remarkable?

He has kept leaning back from
her as she has kept leaning
forward. Now he has to keep
from falling over, slipping on
. the word "remarkable.”

I VICTORIA
i (smiling Icily)

I Yes, Isn’t it. Ridiculous,

I really. I should know better.
: I should realize that a man

of your taste would have

■ nothing to do with such
a —

(viciously)

drab, ugly little creature.

' GREG

(defensively; thoughtlessly)
She’s not !

VICTORIA

: (exploding with brutal
triumph)

: -Ah-^!

Gregory freezes; caught .

VICTORIA
(building again)

Didn’t expect me home so
soon, did you? Thought I’d
be gone all afternoon.

Greg shakes his head, mouth
yawning, making a faint
ineffectual sound of protest.

VICTORIA

I’ve had my eye on you for
some time now. You
thought you’d fooled me,
didn’t you? Thought I never
suspected the real reason
you keep sending me off on

one pretext then another,
(contemptuously)

Have to be alone to work.
Of course ; the famous
playwright.

(beat; exploding again)
Famous philanderer !

Greg backs up.

GREG

Vlc- torla .

VICTORIA

All right, where Is she?
GREG

(extending his right hand)
Dear ?

VICTORIA

(pushing away his hand)
Don’t touch nie.

VICTORIA

(sourly)

What about ft?

GREG

You recall the character of
Philip Walnwright? 'He was
the first character that I
was ever — realfy successful
with. He-=-

VICTORIA

(Interrupting)

What’s her name?

GREG
What? t

VICTORIA
Her name .

GREG

Mary. But —

GREG

Please try to understand.
VICTORIA

Oh, I understand, all right.
GREG

But you don’t. There’s no
other woman in my —
(recoiling from her glare)

I mean . . . how can I
explain it to you?

VICTORIA
Yes, how ?

(pause)

Well; I’m waiting.

Greg gestures fumbllngly. He
turns and walks a few paces,
then turns back again.

GREG

You recall my play, “The
Fury of Night”?

(beat; weakly)

Dear?

VICTORIA
(cutting In; icily)

Mary. How common.

GREG

Victoria, don’t. I’m trying to
explain.

(beat)

You know I’ve spoken many
times of how — fictional
characters seem to come to
life — such vivid life that
they begin to determine
their own actions. The
writer may have some —
particular move planned for
them but they won’t do It .
They’ve become so strong
that they begin to take over ;
the story!

VICTORIA

I hardly see what —

GREG

Rear with me, Victoria. '

- 'i

91

■ long. .

GREG

But I’m explaining it! The
eharacjter of Philip ,
Wainwright was the first
one of my play characters
ever to behave like thlS: No
matter what I tried to make
him do, 'he balked, flatly
refused! He would not
accept my decisions. He was
real, 'alive, with a will of his
own. You understand.

VICTORIA

Only that you’re trying to
change the subject.

GREG

But I’m not! This is the
subject. Philip Wainwright
was alive . So much so that,
one night, while I was
working — right In this
office —

(pointing)

he came walking in through
that door .

Victoria stares at him coldly.
She starts to say something
harsh, but he speaks first.

GREG

Victoria, believe me. He
did — he walked right in
and — took a chair. A real ,
flesh-and-blood man ,
(weakly)

I had created him.

Victoria looks at him a
moment longer, then picks up
the telephone receiver.

VICTORIA

(dialing)

I think psychiatry is next
on the agenda.

Greg comes over and depresses
the cradle arm, continuing
desperately.

GREG

I’m telling you the truth,
Victoria! Characters from
my plays began to come to
life! I saw them,- talked
with them, shook their ■
hands!

VICTORIA

(scornfully)

And made love to them?
GREG

Yes! I mean no!

She slams down the receiver
on his fingers. He cries out,
then catches at her arm as she
turns to leave.

GREG

You know how I work —
how I dictate m'y dialogue
and stage instructions into
this tape recorder.

(holding on to her doggedly)

I can describe any character
at all into it and . . . and
... by now, if I do it well
enough completely enough,
the character will come to
life — real life . Victoria!
They don’t even have to be
characters in my play's
anymore! They can be any
kind of character I want!

VICTORIA

You should be put away.
GREG

Listen to me! You told me
that you saw Mary in here,
didn’t you?

VICTORIA

(grimly)

I saw her,

GREG

Then how did she leave?

You know she didn’t use
the window — and you
know, very well, there’s no
secret door in here.

(beat)

I’ll tell you how she left;
because I want you to
understand.

He points at the scissors.

GREG

With my scissors there I cut
away the portion of
. recording tape on which I
had described her. I threw
the tape into the fire — and
she was gone. Poof —
urn-created.

He runs toward the fireplace.

7. CLOSE SHOT GREG

He bends over and peers into
the fire. Victoria goes for the
door.

GREG

There are still a few pieces
of the tape left.

(turning)

If you’ll come over here,
you can —

He breaks off, seeing what she
is doing. Rushing over to the
door, he blocks her path.

VICTORIA

Get out of my way .

GREG

Where are you going?
VICTORIA

I’m going to have you
committed.

(as he holds her back) ,

Let go of me!

: GREG

j You’ve got to believe me,

I Victoria. I —

She starts struggling with him
and, "seeing that he cannot
convince her, he lunges to the
door, locks It quickly and
takes out the key.' He drops it
Into the pocket of his smoking
jacket.

VICTORIA

What do you think you’re
doing?

GREG

(melodramatically)

Trying to save our marriage.

VICTORIA

Don’t waste .your time .

But he has, already, hurried
past her, heading for the desk.

8. ANOTHER ANGLE

Greg in foreground at the
desk. Feverishly, he attaches
the cut end of the tajDe to the
empty spool.

GREG

I I could describe a cat or a
1 dog or any kind of
i character wanted, but I
presume you’d rather see
Mary. Besides, I’ve created
her so often that she’s more
available.

VICTORIA
.(starting for him)

I’ll ^ she is. Give me that
key!

He starts the recorder and
picks up the microphone,
begins to speak into it.

Igreg

I (quickly)

I Her name Is Mary. She’s
thirty -six. Five-foot-three
; inches tall. Sllmly built.
Brown hair. Light
complexion.

•Victoria extends her hand,
palm up, fully expecting him
jto give her the key.

GREG

On the surface, a plain,
quite ordinary female — yet
with that quality of Inner
loveliness which gives a
woman real beauty.

Victoria, seeing that he is not
going to give her the key,
lunges at him and reaches for
his pocket. He continues
talking Into the microphone as
they stagger around, grappling
for possession of the key.

GREG

(breathlessly)

A tender, gentle woman! An
understanding woman! She
wears a simple black dress,
a single strand of pearls at
her throat! Very little
makeup. Her hair arranged
simply!

Victoria has the key now. She
starts for the door.

GREG

She’s coming up the front
walk now! She’s crossing the
porch!

9. LONG SHOT

Greg in the b.g. In f.g.,

Victoria unlocks the door.

GREG

She’s opening the front
door!

Victoria has the door half open
as she freezes. Out in the hall,
the front door OPENS.

GREG

Closing It. ■ ■ '

The o.s. door SHUTS and
Victoria’s breath cuts off. Greg
slumps wearily.

GREG

Walking across the hall.

Victoria stiffens as a woman’s
heels begin to CLICK across
the hall floor, approaching the
office. She draws back
uneasily, staring at

10. THE OPEN DOORWAY

The CLICK of the approaching
heels getg louder, louder.

11. VICTORIA

Watching apprehensively. The
FOOTSTEPS get very loud,
then, abruptly, stop. Victoria
gasps squeaklngly.

12. MARY

Standing In the doorway,
smiling pleasantly.

MARY

Good afternoon, Mrs. West.

FADE

END* ACT ONE
FADE IN:

13. INT. OFFICE DAY

Victoria stands frozen, staring
at Mary. Greg looks at his
wife tensely.

GREG

Well?

Victoria throws him a nervous
glance, then. Immediately,
looks back at Mary again.

Mary looks at Greg.

MARY
(distressed)

93

Why do you bring me here
now?

GREG

- Because —

(pause; swallows)

Come In, Mary. »

She closes the door and takes
a few steps into the room,
stopping as Victoria shrinks
from her. ■

MARY

There’s nothing to be afraid
of, Mrs. West.

GREG

Well , Victoria? Do you
believe me now?

Victoria tries to look at him
and, at the same time, keep an
eye on Mary.

VICTORIA

(grimly)

This Is some kind of plot.

You let her out of here
through a secret door. Then
you tell me some — fool
story about characters
coming to life. You lock the
door and pretend to make
her come to Life and^ — and
she comes in through the
front door and tries to make
me think she’s —

(pointing at Greg)

You’re trying to drive me
insane! You want to have
me committed!

GREG

(flabbergasted)

I only .did It because you
said you were going to have
me committed!

VICTORIA

You want to get rid of me;
have all our property to
yourself. So you can share
it with this — this —

GREG

(pained)

I only wanted to show you!
MARY

Is that why you brought
me? Just to show her?

GREG

Mary, try to understand.
Victoria’s my wife .

! VICTORIA

I Not any more! Not after
this — diabolic conspiracy!

GREG

Oh ... come on, Victoria.
Can’t I do anything right?

MARY

You haven’t answered me,
Greg.

Greg looks at her, then bauk
at his wife.

GREG

Victoria, do you, honestly,
believe that I’d —

He stops as Victoria moves for
the door, circuiting Mary by a
wide margin. With a groan,
Greg moves to intercept her.

GREG

Here we go again.

14. ANOTHER ANGLE

He reaches the' door first,
relocks it, and drops the. key
Into the pocket of his smoking
jacket.

VICTORIA

Let me out of here.

(as he tries to take her hand,
she recoils)

Monster!

GREG

Oh!

Irritated, he starts for the
desk.

VICTORIA

What are you going to do?

I’ll scream, Gregory. I’ll
scream.

GREG

(dismally)

What for?

MARY

(following Greg)

Greg, why do you do this to
me?

GREG

I’m sorry, Mary; but what
else could I do?

Unhappily, he picks up the
scissors and cuts the recording
tape, then starts to pull free
the tape on the recorded spool.

MARY

(aghast)

Again?

(beat)

I just got here, Greg.

GREG

What else can I do?

MARY

That’s all you ever say.

She turns from' film and walks
toward the v/indow.

15. LONG SHOT

Victoria watcihlng as Mary
stops in f.g. and looks out
through the window. Victoria
looks toward Greg.

16. ANOTHER ANGLE

Featuring Greg. Several yards
of tape are coiled on top of the
recorder nov/. He cuts off the
end; then, putting down the
scissors, picks up the clump of
tape with both hands .and
starts toward the fireplace.

94

GREG

([muttering glumly)

Wouldn’t believe me. Oh, no.
Had to make me prove It.
Make me force poor Mary
to —

(exhales heavily)

Oh, Victoria; sometimes I
wonder.

17. LONG SHOT

Mary in the f.g., looking out
the window. In the b.g. Greg
reaches the fireplace. Victoria
watches, standing motionless.

MARY

(defeatedly)

Don’t bring me back again,
Greg.

GREG

(looking at her)

Mary ....

MARY

Just .... don’t. I can’t
bear it any longer.

18. ANOTHER ANGLE

Victoria In f.g. Greg turns to
the fireplace. He looks into the
flames gloomily.

GREG
(giving .up)

Oh ....

He throws the tape into the

jflre.

19. INSERT FIRE

As the tape lands; catches fire.

20. LONG SHOT

Mary In f.g. Greg turns to her.
GREG

Mary, I’m sorry . . . but
she my wife.

Mary says nothing but her
trembling lips press together
and tears glisten in her eyes.,

21. INSERT FIRE

The tape burns brightly.

22. VICTORIA

Watching Mary. Suddenly, her
lower jaw drops and she
makes the squeaking gasp
again, louder this time.

23. THE WINDOW
VICTORIA’S P.O.V.

Mary Is no longer there.

24. MED. SHOT GREG
AND VICTORIA

Greg looks Into the fire with
brooding eyes. Victoria gapes
toward the window.

VICTORIA

Where is she?

GREG

(tlredly)

I’ve told you, Victoria.

VICTORIA

(hoarsely)

Where is she?

With a somber grunt, Greg
turns from the fireplace and
goes over to hls wife.

GREG

Don’t you believe me yet ,
Victoria?

VICTORIA
Where did she go ?

GREG

(grumpily)

I told you. I un- created her.

Victoria whines and looks
appalled. Sighing, Greg puts
hls arms around her and
presses his cheek to hers.

25. TIGHT TWO SHOT

GREG

(somberly)

It’s all right, dear. It won’t
happen anymore. I promise
you. I’ll never do it again.

She looks at' him fearfully.
Then her eyes glance
downward and, as he
continues, she reaches slowly
for his jacket pocket.

GREG

I never would have done it
In the first place If I hadn’t
been so lonely. It’s just
that — you’re so perfect,
Victoria. So impeccable,
so — flawless. You make me
feel Inferior.

t

26. INSERT VICTORIA'S
HAND

Reaching Into the pocket of
Greg’s smoking jacket.

GREG VOICE

That’s why I created Mary.

I didn’t do it to Insult you.

I just wanted a little
company, that’s all.

27. BACK TO SCENE

GREG

Soiheone I could talk to.
Someone I could feel
comfortable with. Not like
a — worm.

(draws back)

You understand. Don’t you?

She only stares at him. With a
sign, he turns for the desk.
Immediately, Victoria starts
backing for the door.

28. ANOTHER ANGLE

Greg comes into f.g. and starts
repairing the tape. In the b.g.,
Victoria backs slowly toward
the.jdoor.

95

GREG

We’ll work it out, Victoria.
Somehow, we’ll — work it
-out. I realize that I’m
inadequate compared to you.
It’s my fault. I should •
have- —

He looks up at the click of the
door being unlocked. He feels
suddenly into his pocket.

VICTORIA

Don’t try to stop me .

■GREG

Where are you going?

VICTORIA

(coldly)

To the nearest lawyer. I’m
going to have you put away
for the rest of your
unnatural life — away from
tape recorders! I’m going to
live in this house alone — in
peace — free of your
diseased mind!

GREG

(resisting this)

No, Victoria.

VICTORIA

Yes , Victoria!

She turns and leaves,
slamming the door behind her.

29. CLOSE SHOT GREG

He strains forward as if to
pursue her; then, restraining
himself, quickly turns on the
tape recorder and snatches up
the microphone.

GREG

(ferociously into the
microphone)

A giant, red-eyed elephant
is standing just inside my
front door and he isn’t
going to let her pass !

Out in the hall, an ELEPHANT
CRY trumpets!

30. FRONT HALL

Victoria is cringing before an
elephant whose trunk is raised
angrily. She screams.

31. LONG SHOT

Greg in f.g. looking toward the
hall door. Victoria SCREAMS
again wildly o.s. and there are
great CRASHING sounds as the
elephant stamps across the
hall floor. Suddenly, the door
is flung open, Victoria rushes
in, slams the door behind her
and, falling back against It,
points a trembling finger at
Greg.

VICTORIA

(hysterical)

Get that elephant out of my
hall!

GREG

(tightly)

Will you stay here?

VICTORIA

Yes!

Quickly, Greg cuts off a small
section of the tape and carries
It toward the fireplace.

32. VICTORIA

Pressing back against the
door. Out In the hall, the

ELEPHANT’S CRY trumpets
again. The door starts to
rattle.

VICTORIA

Hurry!

The door Is pressing open.

VICTORIA

(shrilly)

Gregory!

33. GREG

Throwing the tape Into the
fire. The sound of the elephant
ceases almost Instantly. He
looks toward

34. VICTORIA

Leaning against the door
weakly and panting.

VICTORIA

(huskily)

You’re mad !

35. TWO SHOT

GREG

You shouldn’t have said
those things, Victoria.

(beat)

You’ll stay now?

VICTORIA

You think you’re going to
keep me here?

GREG

(embarrassed)

You don’t want me to do It
again, do you?

VICTORIA

No!

(regaining composure)

I’ll stay for now, Gregory.-
But — believe me — the first
chance I get, I’ll have you
put In a padded cell. Believe
me, Gregory.

GREG

(sadly)

I believe you.

(sighs)

Well ... I guess there’s no
other way.

He turns and walks to a
picture on the wall. Pulling it
aside, he reveals a safe.

VICTORIA

How long has that been
there?

36. ANOTHER ANGLE

Greg In close f.g., opening the
safe. Victoria watches him.

GREG

(wearily)

Only since you and I
were — married.

He opens the safe door and
pulls out a bulky envelope.
There are several other similar
envelopes In the safe.

37. REVERSE SHOT

Turning, Greg brings the
envelope to her.

VICTORIA
(suspicious) -
What Is It?

He holds the envelope out to
her and she takes it, looks at
it. She frowns.

38. INSERT ENVELOPE

Printed on. It, in large black
letters. Is the name VICTORIA
WEST.

39. BACK TO SCENE

VICTORIA

What’s this supposed to
mean?

Gravely, Greg takes the
envelope from her, uncllps the
flap and turns the envelope
upside down. A flattened
clump of recording tape drops
onto the palm of his other
hand.

40. INSERT TAPE ON
HAND

41. BACK TO SCENE

Victoria looks at the tape, then
at Greg. He starts to put the
tape back into the envelope.

GREG

(thinly)

Shall I put It back in the
safe, Victoria? Or shall I
burn it?

She says nothing, staring at

him, her expression
Inscrutable. He finishes
putting the tape Into the
envelope and clips down the
flap; looks up at her.

GREG

Well?

VICTORIA

You’re trying to make me
believe —

GREG

(pained)

I’m^ telling you, Victoria.
Look at yourself — regal,
beautiful. You could have
any man you wanted.
Haven’t you ever wondered
why you got stuck with me ?
Didn’t I just tell you —
you’re Impeccable, flawless.
The sort of wife I —

(beat; sadly)

used to think I wanted
more than anything else in
the world.

VICTORIA

(struggling for sanity)

This Is another trick.

GREG

(overlapping)

Why do you suppose I was
so upset when you came
back before? No, not
because of Mary, but
because it was the first time
you’d ever come back
against my will. The first
time —

VICTORIA

(Interrupting)

Do you really think you’re

GREG

(pause; sadly)

No. I guess not. You’re
beyond that, aren’t you? I
made you too strong. I
forgot to give you human
frailty.

His shoulders slump
defeatedly.

GREG

Well, I guess I deserve it. -
It’s what I asked for.
(looking at the envelope)

I’ll put It away. I have no
right to —

He breaks off as Victoria grabs
the envelope from his hand.

VICTORIA
(with contempt)

You tedious little boor .
Here’s what I think of your
childish trick!

As she speaks, she flings the
envelope Into the fire.

GREG

(aghast)

Victoria!

He falls to his knees before
the fire and tries to snatch the
envelope from the flames.
Falling, he glances up In
panic.

GREG

You don’t know what you
did!

42. ANOTHER ANGLE

Featuring Victoria. Greg tries
again to get the envelope out

97

of the flames but cannot.
Suddenly, Victoria gets an odd
expression on her face.

VICTORIA

I feel so strange. As if I
were about to —

(horrified)

You don’t mean to tell me
you were right ?

On the word “right” she Is
suddenly, and simply, not
there . Greg lunges to his feet.

GREG

Victoria! Vic — 1
(he breaks off; shakes his
head)

I told her. I told her. Why
wouldn’t she listen to me?

He clucks in distress, then
trudges over to the desk.

43. CLOSE SHOT GREG

He repairs the loose tape ends
and turns on the recorder,
picks u-p the microphone.

GREG

Her name Is Victoria West.
She —

He stops and thinks It over.
Then, with a grunt, he
reverses the tape.

GREG

Leave well enough alone.

He stops the tape and runs It
forward again. In recording
position.

GREG

(happily)

Her name Is Mary.

(beat; suddenly Inspired)

Mrs. Mary West .

(quickly)

She’s thlrty-slx. Flve-foot-
three Inches tall. Sllmly
built. Brown hair. Light
complexion.

(more slowly and lovingly)

On the surface, a plain,
quite ordinary female — yet
with that quality of Inner
loveliness which gives a
woman re&l beauty. A
tender, gentle woman. An
understanding woman.

She is coming Into her
husband’s study —

Greg sets down the recording
head and walks over to the
fireplace to await Mary’s
entrance.

45. AT DOOR

Mary enters, radiant and
smiling. She looks across the
room at Greg, lovingly, then
walks toward him. As she
does so . . . CAMERA
PANNING . . .

CUT TO:

46. MEDIUM SHOT
ROD SERLING

At Greg’s desk. He Is holding
up Greg’s recorder, looking at
It amusedly.

ROD

(to audience)

We hope you enjoyed
tonight’s romantic story on
“The Twilight Zone.” At the
same time, we want you to
realize that it was, of
course, purely fictional. In
real life, such ridiculous
nonsense could never . . .
GREG’S VOICE
(interrupting)

Rod!

Rod looks off, startled.

47. AT FIREPLACE
GREG AND MARY

His arm is snugly and
comfortably around her waist.
He is looking off at Rod.

You shouldn’t.

He detaches himself from
Mary and takes a few steps to
i his wall safe. He pulls out an
envelope.

GREG

You shouldn’t have said
those things. Rod. Like
nonsense. And ridiculous.

48. INSERT ENVELOPE

in Greg’s hand. In large clear
letters, the envelope is marked
“ROD SERLING.”

49. GREG AT FIREPLACE

He tosses envelope into fire.

50. INSERT ENVELOPE

I

with Rod’s name on it lands
In fire. Flames begin to lick at
it.

51. ROD AT DESK

looking offscene unhappily.
Now he turns to the audience.

ROD

Well, that’s the way It
goes ....

On the word “goes,” he goes
. . . disappears. CAMERA
PANS toward a window
nearby .

ROD’S VOICE

' ... leaving Mr. Gregory

West ... still shy, quiet,
very happy . . . and,
apparently. In complete
control of -the Twilight Zone.

F’ADE OUT

THE END *0

Serling photo courtesy Marc Scott Zicree. other photos courtesy the Serling Archives. Ithoco College School of Comrhunicotions

S HOW-BY-SHOW

GUIDE

TV’s Twilight Zone
Part Twenty-Three

CONTINUING MARC SCOTT ZICREE'S
SHOW-BY-SHOW GUIDE TO THE ENTIRE,
TlV/t/GnTZO/VE TELEVISION SERIES,
COMPLETE WITH ROD SERLING'S OPENING
AND CLOSING NARRATIONS

“You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension— a dimension of
sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind.
You’re moving into a land of both shadow and
substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed
over into the Twilight Zone.”

given the solution to this twofold
mystery, but in a manner far beyond
her present capacity to understand, a
manner enigmatically bizarre in
terms of time and space— which is to
say, an answer from the Twilight
Zone.”

141. SPUR OF THE MOMENT

Written by Richard Matheson

Producer: Bert Granet

Director: Elliot Silverstein

Dir. of Photography: Robert W. Pittack

Music: composed by Rene Garriguenc;

conducted by Lud Gluskin

Cast

Anne Henderson: Diana Hyland
Robert Blake: Robert Hogan
David Mitchell: Roger Davis
Mr. Henderson: Philip Ober
Mrs. Henderson: Marsha Hunt
Reynolds: Jack Raine

“This is the face of terror: Anrw
Marie Henderson, eighteen years of
age, her young existence suddenly
marred by a savage and wholly
unanticipated pursuit by a strange,
nightmarish figure of a woman in
black, who has appeared as if from
nowhere and now at driving gallop
chases the terrified girl across the
countryside, as if she means to rids
her doum and kill her— and then
suxidenly and inexplicably stops, to
watch in malignant silence as her
prey takes flight. Miss Henderson has
no idea whatever as to the motive for
this pursuit; worse, not the vaguest
notion regarding the identity of her
pursuer. Soon enough, she will be

After being chased by the black-clad
figure on horseback, Anne rushes
home to where her parents are
waiting with her fiance Robert, a
proper but dull young stockbroker.
Suddenly, in bursts David, a
romantic, headstrong young fellow
once engaged to Anne, of whom
Anne’s parents disapprove. He begs
Anne to marry him, whom she loves,
and not be forced by her father into
a marriage with Robert. Anne’s
father won’t hear of this; he forces
David to leave at gunpoint. Twenty-
five years pass. Anne is now a bitter
alchoholic of forty-three; her drunken
bum of a husband has gone through
her family’s entire fortune. It is she
who, dressed in black, chases her
younger self, trying in vain to warn
her not to marry the wrong man.

But the wrong man was not
Robert— it was David!

age, her desolate existence once more
afflicted by the hope of altering her
past mistake— a hope which is,
unfortunately, doomed to
disappointment. For warnings from
the future to the past must be taken
in the past; today may change
tomorrow, but once today is gone
tomorroiv can only look back in
sorrow that the warning was ignored.
Said warning as of now stamped ‘not
accepted’ and stored away in the
dead file in the recording office of the
Twilight Zone. ”

“This is the face of terror: Anne
Marie Mitchell, forty-three years of

lOO

I

; 142. AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL
1 CREEK BRIDGE

i Written and Directed by Robert Enrico
Based on the short story
by Ambrose Bierce
Producers: Marcel Ichac
and Paul de Roubaix
(Tvnlight Zone opening sequence
produced by William Froug)

Dir. of Photo^aphy: Jean Boffety

Music: Henri Lanoe

Cast

Confederate Spy: Roger Jacquet
! With Anne Cornaly, Anker Larsen,
Stephane Fey, Jean-Francois Zeller,
Pierre Danny and Louis Adelin

"Tonight a presentation so special
and unique that, for the first time in
the five years we’ve been presenting
The Twilight Zone, we’re offering a
film shot in France by others.

Winner of the Cannes Film Festival
of 1962, as well as other
international awards, here is a
haunting study of the incredible, from
the past master of the incredible,
Ambrose Bierce. Here is the French
production of ‘An Occurrence at Owl
Creek Bridge. ’ ’’

It is the American Civil War. Union
soldiers stand on a railroad bridge.

143. QUEEN OF THE NILE

Written by Jerry Sohl
Plotted by Charles Beaumont
and Jerry Sohl

(show credited solely to Beaumont)
Producer: William Froug
Director: John Brahm
. Dir. of Photography: Charles Wheeler
Music: composed by Lucien Moraweck;
conducted by Lud Gluskin
Cast

Jordan Herrick: Lee Philips
Pamela Morris: Ann Blyth
Viola Draper: Celia Lovsky
Krueger: Frank Ferguson
Mr. Jackson: James Tyler
Maid: Ruth Phillips

"Jordan, Herrick, syndicated
columnist whose work appears in
more than a hundred newspapers. By
nature a cynic, a disbeliever, caught
for the moment by a lovely vision. He
knows 'the vision he’s seen is no
dream; she is Pamela Morris,
renowned movie star, whose name is
a household word and whose face is
known to millions. What Mr. Herrick

preparing to execute a Confederate
spy. They set a plank out from the
bridge, stand the man upon it, make
the noose tight around his neck. The
plank is pulled out from under him,
he falls through space— but
miraculously, the rope breaks!

Dodging bullets, the man swims for
his life. Reaching the shore, he
manages to evade the enemy troops.
He has one goal in mind: to get
home. Struggling over the terrain, he
eventually reaches his plantation. His
wife— beautifully dressed, every hair

does not know is that he has also just
looked into the face— of the Twilight
Zone.”

Arriving at her house to interview
her, Herrick finds Morris as lovely
and youthful-looking as when she
starred in the 1940 film. Queen of the
Nile. Upon leaving, he is confronted
by seventy-year-old Viola Draper, a
woman he takes for Morris’s mother
but who tells him she is actually her
daughter! Intrigued, he does some
investigating and finds that
Constance Taylor— a /emme fatale
from the early years of the century
who looked exactly as Morris does
now— starred in a silent version of
Queen of the Nile, then disappeared.
Suspecting that, somehow, Morris
and Taylor are the same woman,
Herrick confronts Pamela. She drugs
his coffee, then admits she really was
a queen of the Nile— in ancient
Egypt! Using a live scarab, she
drains all of Herrick’s life force and
transfers it to herself. Just then, the
doorbell rings. A handsome young
man enters— soon to be yet another
in a long line of victims.

in place, seemingly untouched by
war— comes running toward him. But
as her hands go round his neck, he
seizes up. In an instant, he is back
at Owl Creek Bridge, hanging by his
neck— and very much dead.

"An occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge— in two forms, as it was
dreamed, and as it was lived and
died. ThisHs the stuff of fantasy, the I
thread of imagination ... the
ingredients of the Twilight Zone. ”

"Everybody knows Pamela Morris, I

the beautiful and eternally young
movie star. Or does she have another i
name, even more famous, an j

Egyptian name from centuries past? |
It’s best not to be too curious, lest
you wind up like Jordan Herrick, a
pile of dust and old clothing,
discarded in the endless eternity of '
the Twilight Zone. ”10

lOl

In June’s T2

The Second Annual

RtxJ SgiinK;> W^W

Stephen King’s terrifying new
noveiette, The Raft.

Gut-clenching no-holds-barred horror from
the author of Cujo and The Shining.

A special triple-feature.

Full-color previews of The Keep, Psycho ii,
and Something Wicked This Way Comes—
the first based on F. Paul Wilson’s current
horror bestseller, the next a long-awaited
sequel to the Hitchcock masterpiece,
and the third an even longer-awaited
adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s fantasy classic

Exclusive photos of the
Twilight Zone movie.

Meet director

George (The Road Warrior) Miller,
leading man John (Garp) Lithgow,
and a newcomer to the screen named
Carol Serling. Plus another view of Miller by
the Road Warrior himself, Mel Gibson.

The controversial queen of
gothic horror.

\ TZ interviews V. C. Andrews, author of
' the bizarre bestsellers Flowers in the Attic
and Petals on the Wind.

Weird quintet.

Five exceedingly strange new stories
about invisibility, premature burial,
and the monster under everybody’s bed.
Plus a modern horror classic
from darkest Britain!

Confessions of a freelance
fantasy writer.

A survival guide to

the perilous world of publishing.

The fantasy five-foot bookshelf.

TZ surveys the field, past and present,
in a special three-way chart.

Master of movie music.

A new look at Bernard Herrmann, who
wrote the scores for Psycho, Taxi Driver,
and TV’s Twilight Zone.

Unconventional opinions.

Gahan Wilson on movies,

Thomas Disch on books.

Plus our most challenging quiz yet, from
acrostic expert Peter Cannon.

Don’t miss June’s Twilight Zone—
two months of entertainment
for just $2.50.

Short Story Contest

HONORABLE MENTION'

"State of the Art" by Dan Barron, Los Angeles, CA

"The Woman of His Dreams" by Paul Bass and Rick Weiss,
Portland, OR

"The Pocket" by Christopher Bettin, Glen Ellyn, IL
"Record Time" by Michael Burke, Los Angeles, CA
"The Relic" by Del Corrick, Moorhead, MN
"Bittersweet" by Elizabeth Fern, Ellensburg, WA
"And When Was That?" by Georgia Fries, Elyria, OH
"Wings of Aether" by Lint Hatcher, Jeffersonville, GA
"These Four Walls" by Mark Hilderbrand, St. Louis, MO
"The Thief" by Sheena Ann Lawrence, Atlanta, GA
I "Every Mother Is a Daughter" by Stacey Leigh,

Saratoga, CA

"Guardian" by Barbara Lowe, Northport, NY
"Father-to-Son Talk" by Ken Murdok, Milwaukee, Wl
"Beggars Would Ride" by Emily Newland, Ozark, AR
/ "Rosalee" by Mike Newland, Richardson, TX

"Born Again" by Jesse Osburn, Tulsa, OK
"Wolf Is Waiting" by Mark A. Parks, French Lick, IN
"Guilt" by David Walter, Rochester, NY

'(in alphabetical order by author)

Attention, All Readers!

* . _ j _ .

Starting next issue, as a service to our readers,
mtfW Rod Seriing's

will accept classified and personal
advertisements. The cost, payable in advance,
is $1.25 per word ($1.50 for words fully
capitalized), with a 20-word minimum.

Please send your announcements with
remittance to: Marina Despotakis

Classified Ad Manager
TZ Publications, Inc.

800 Second Avenue
New York, NY 10017

IS are based on a guaranteed circulatioa beginning tries issue, of 150.000,
ihing an estimated 300,000 readers.

I

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